


Empire of Light

by undermounts



Series: Of Loss and Legends [2]
Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Choices, Choices: Stories You Play - Freeform, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pixelberry, blades of light and shadow, bolas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:54:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26762422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undermounts/pseuds/undermounts
Summary: "To defeat an empire of legend, we need an army of legend. We need everyone.”In the aftermath of the Battle of Ash, the party travels across Morella in search of allies to defeat the Empire of Ash, once and for all.
Relationships: Aerin Valleros/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow), Imtura Tal Kaelen/Original Character(s), Nia Ellarious & Mal Volari, Nia Ellarious/Mal Volari, Tyril Starfury/Original Character(s)
Series: Of Loss and Legends [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950157
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Prologue: Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the sparkling capital of Morella, strange things go bump in the night.

Whitetower was not the sort of city that slept.

Even at the oddest hours of the morning, there was always some sort of trouble afoot—sometimes good trouble, sometimes bad, but always mischievous. The evenings were filled with the merry music from open tavern doors, the raucous laughter of drunkards, the rapturous cries of lovers, and other things that went bump in the night. Deals were made in dark alleyways, schemes were carried out amongst thieves atop the terracotta shingles that lined moonlit rooftops, and assassins and mercenaries earned their coin in underground fighting pits, where the wealthy and poor alike frequented to bet on the odds.

The Temple of Light, mercifully, was always quiet, and Cili loved quiet.

Cili, however, did not love Whitetower. He couldn’t wait until he ascended the full rank of priesthood—even though that was many years away—so that he could lead the pilgrimages across Morella or the recruitment journeys that picked up orphaned magic users such as himself, if only so he could get out of the city. It was too loud, and in some places, like the Nooks and Crannies, too smelly. In fact, if Cili had to pick a few words to describe Whitetower, they would simply be, “too much.”

Cili could still remember the day he had arrived in the capital city three years ago, not long after his fifth birthday had passed, when the priests had brought him to live at the Temple. Permanently. To put it quite frankly, that day was one of the most terrifying he’d ever had. 

Whitetower was overwhelming, a sensory overload. After crossing through the city’s borders, Cili had seen more people within a few moments than he’d ever seen on the quiet farm he grew up on. The sheer volume of people that occupied the capital made him nervous—they were a tide he could get lost in, could drown in. He was used to small communities and houses that were fields apart. Even after three years, he was still adjusting to living at the Temple with all of the other acolytes and priests.

The Market District was especially stressful. There were so many people, so many voices, smells, colors, and sounds—all of it blending together into a cacophonous mess that made Cili cling to the sleeves of the nearest priestess and bury his face in her robes. 

And beyond what Cili had experienced in his sheltered upbringing at the Temple were the stories he had heard. Some of the older students at the Temple gossiped about Whitetower’s underworld, the secret guilds of thieves, mercenaries, and assassins. Apparently, there were entire networks of tunnels hidden beneath the capital, dozens of secret passageways, and hundreds of peepholes for espionage. 

The first time Cili had heard the gossip was in the hours after lights were out and the acolytes were supposed to be asleep. After that, he had spent the following day scouring the walls and rafters of the Temple for spies. He’d soon realized that he was acting a bit foolishly—the Temple of Light was perhaps the most secure place in Whitetower, right after the palace, but he still made sure to stay close to the priests whenever they were led throughout the city for their weekly services. While the other acolytes spoke of the criminals of Whitetower with some degree of awe or amusement—mostly about a thief dubbed the “Whitetower Reaper” that had mysteriously vanished a few years ago—Cili could only pray that he never encountered such rabble.

Nobles, knights, Light-users, traders, merchants, thieves, and assassins—Whitetower seemed to have it all. 

The one thing Whitetower did not have was monsters. At least not of the beastly kind, with fangs and fur and claws. Although, the same could not be said of those ruled by greed and ambition… No, Whitetower was not home to strange creatures, aside from the occasional noble-owned voxper. 

Or at least, that _used_ to be the case. 

Now, a giant, winged creature stood guard on the city walls with a blazing fire in his lungs. And unbeknownst to the general public, strange beasts prowled the shadows… 

Cili quietly shuffled down the moonlit marble halls of the Temple, collecting and extinguishing the old candles that had been burning all evening and replacing them with new ones he would light tomorrow morning. This was the last part of his daily routine, his final task of the day as one of the younger acolytes, and his least favorite chore. He would never admit it, especially around the older children, but his heart always beat a little faster when he carried out this task, the tempo increasing with every flame he extinguished. Cili was not afraid of the dark, but he _was_ afraid of the things that may lurk within it.

Growing up in the quiet countryside, Cili had never had any reason to believe in the folktales about wicked monsters or strange beasts that would snatch little children out of their beds at night. He’d only ever encountered lapna and kromps, which were more or less content to stay away, especially if rewarded with food. But after the events of the last year—portals opened to the Shadow Realm, the Crown Prince’s death, the Dreadlord’s rise and fall, the Battle of Ash, the Blood King’s ascension, and the guardian dragon’s arrival…. After all of that, Cili was no longer sure what to believe. He only knew that whenever he blew out a candle and stared into the shadows that crept in, he had the sinking, dreadful feeling that something was staring back.

Cili came to a stop in front of one of the white marble statues that lined the Hall of Saints. This statue in particular was of Saint Damaris, who was known for protecting children—especially orphans. This was Cili’s favorite Saint of Light, even if Damaris’ death was one of the more gruesome ones on record. Cili had learned that Damaris had died during the Great War—as most famous Saints did—while protecting a chartered boat of orphans from winged shadow gargoyles as they crossed the Silban River to safety.

Cili looked down at the candles at the base of Damaris’ statue, glanced at the darkening hall around him, then decided to extinguish those ones last. He did not mind having the Saint’s protection for a little while longer. 

Cili continued down the Hall of Saints, blowing out and replacing candles as he went. As he did, he recalled the names of the Saints and their stories, a tactic he had once used to strengthen his memory of the famous figures that had soon become a habit. Saint Ahlai, protector of settlements along the Golden Coast, drowned while defending a cluster of fishing boats from a bloodsquid during a storm. Saint Noa, protector of travellers, stoned to death while protecting a royal procession from raiders. The list went on and on—Saint Pasha, Saint Viktor, Saint Emira, Saint Holland, Saint Calla, Saint Athos… One tragedy after another. 

As he went about his task, Cili wondered if anyone he knew would one day ascend to the status of saint. A part of him hoped not. Revered as they were, almost every Saint seemed to meet a tragic end.

Cili reached the end of the hall, coming to a halt at the base of Saint Alina’s statue. He gazed upon the Saint’s alabaster countenance, her beautiful face at once nurturing, fierce, and sorrowful. She was one of the most popular saints, known as the protector of the innocents. Cili shuddered as he recalled her particular demise: burned while defending a town of human serfs during the Great War. The young acolyte shook that gruesome thought from his head as he withdrew a fresh candle from his basket and placed it at the base of her altar and leaned down to blow the flames out.

The moment the last candle guttered out, Cili felt a sudden chill wash over him, as if he had been plunged into a frozen lake. He inhaled sharply, clutching the basket of candles tightly to his chest as ice spread through his veins and the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Something was wrong.

Heart pounding in his small chest, Cili slowly turned around. There was nothing behind him, although he found no relief in this small discovery. With the doors to the outer courtyard of the Temple closed and most of the candles extinguished, Cili was shrouded in darkness. His attention tunneled to the flickering semi-circle of candlelight that surrounded Saint Damaris’ statue, the only source of illumination in the entire hall aside from the watery moonlight

Cili’s blood was loud in his ears. He could not explain it, the inexplicable urge to _run._ Something was watching him, he could feel it. Waiting for him.

Cili inhaled deeply, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he smothered the urge to run toward the ring of light. Surely this was just some sort of joke. If anyone was watching him from the shadows, it was the other acolytes, playing a prank on him. Cili had a bit of a reputation around the Temple of being easily scared, after all. If they wanted to get a reaction out of anyone, Cili was the perfect target.

“This isn’t funny,” Cili declared, his voice quivering despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

No response.

“Marco?” he questioned as he clutched the basket of candles tightly to his chest and then slowly began to creep toward the other end of the hall, careful to keep his steps steady so he did not betray the immense fear he felt. He did not want the other acolytes to get the satisfaction of seeing him run. “Jude? I know it's you guys. You can cut it out. I’m not afraid.”

Again, no response. Then—

There was a rustling sound, like the flap of wings. Then the scrape of something solid and heavy against the smooth marble stone and—

Cili lost his nerve and ran, dropping his basket of candles as he sprinted for the semi-circle of candlelight around Saint Damarius. No sooner had he begun to run did the creature in the shadows flare to life. 

A horrible snarl ricocheted off the marble and alabaster floors of the hall, followed by the abrupt _boom_ of beating wings and the _click, click, click_ of talons snapping against the floor. 

Something hot and leathery struck Cili across the back of his legs and he stumbled, crashing to the floor only a few paces away from Saint Damaris’ light. Cili’s chin throbbed from smacking it against the marble tiles, but he shoved himself to his hands and knees, hastily scrambling for the ring of light like his life depended on it.

It did.

Cili waited until he was fully within the semi-circle of candlelight, naively believing that the light of a few measly flames would keep the mysterious creature at bay, before he flipped onto his back, throwing his hands up as he finally faced the beast.

His scream lodged in his throat, which felt as if it had been swollen shut with fear.

Cili did not know how to process what exactly was before him. He had never seen a creature like this in his childhood storybooks, had never even _heard_ of a creature like this, either from the other acolytes or the old storytellers that sat around Whitetower’s town square. 

The beast had the face and wings of a bat, although its body was distinctly humanoid, corded with rippling muscle. But the creature’s composition was not nearly the strangest thing about it. The beast did not have skin nor fur, but rather, it appeared to be made of _shadow._ Tendrils of darkness wicked off of its body like smoke and glowing lines of reddish orange light trailed along its arms and torso, like molten lava bubbling through the cracked, blackened surface of cooled magma.

As it slowly prowled forward, the gargoyle screeched at him, baring a mouthful of razor sharp teeth and Cili flinched back, throwing up his hands defensively. He called desperately upon his teaching of the Light in a vain hope that something the priests had taught him would be useful in warding this creature away, but defensive magic was too advanced for someone his age, its teaching withheld until he reached his tenth year. 

The young acolyte scuttled backward as the beast stalked toward him until his back met the base of Damaris’ statue. Trembling, Cili’s eyes were trained on the gargoyles taloned, hideous feet as it lumbered closer to the circle of light. Closer, closer, closer—

One of the gargoyle’s talons breached the light.

And nothing happened.

Cili whimpered, realizing that there was nothing that could save him, not the candlelight, not Damaris, and judging by the quiet that still settled over the temple, not the priests, either. Desperate, Cili conjured an Orb of Light in his palms, the only bit of magic he could confidently do. In response, the gargoyle hissed, rearing back as a clawed hand swung forward, narrowly missing Cili’s face as the boy lunged back. Almost instantly, due to his fear and lapse in concentration, the Orb guttered out.

Panicked, Cili tried and failed to conjure another Orb of Light as the gargoyle shifted over him. Cili’s hands fell uselessly into his lap as the monster cornered him against the marble statue, its tepid breath ghosting over the boy’s face as it opened its gaping maw wide for the killing blow.

Left with nothing else to do, Cili closed his eyes and began to pray. 

_“Light guide me through this endless night and protect me from the darkness. On Viktor, on Calla, on Athos and Alina. On Noa, on Pasha, on Damaris_ —” Cili broke his prayer and sobbed desperately. “Saints, _save me!”_

The doors to the Temple slammed against the walls as they burst open, and a flash of Light so bright it was blinding illuminated the room. The beast above Cili was thrown back by the blast and struck the opposite wall with an animalistic whimper of pain.

Cili’s gaze snapped to the open doorway where two cloaked figures appeared, silhouetted by the night sky and the mist that drifted across the cobblestone roads of Whitetower. The one on the right, distinguishable by the taller stature, swayed ever so slightly as the one on the left lunged forward with incredible grace and speed. Cili just barely caught the glint of steel before two blades shot out of the cloaked figure’s gloved hands. It was only until Cili followed the path of the blades that he realized the Shadow beast had gotten up from its supine position against the wall and had begun to charge toward him once more. 

The blades sunk into the gargoyle’s stomach, slowing its advance. The monster roared in pain and frustration as its wings snapped out, lifting its body into the air. There was a whizzing sound and sickening squelch as an arrow embedded itself in one of the beast’s wings, quickly followed by another arrow that struck the other one, causing it to crash to the ground once more. Cili looked to the taller figure, who now brandished a glittering bow of silver and gold metal. Beneath the folds of their coat, he could just make out the silver hilt of a sword. 

No sooner had the beast fallen from the air did the second figure with the knives spring forward, gripping the protruding shafts of the arrows and using them as leverage to shove the gargoyle back, pinning it to the wall. The Shadow creature howled as Cili’s rescuer used their weight to trap the beast, then yanked the arrows down, shredding its wings to the point of uselessness. The cloaked figure pulled back, unsheathing a knife strapped to their thigh, and raised the gleaming weapon high, prepared to stab deep into the beast’s heart.

Cili’s breath caught in his throat. He could not believe what he was witnessing, could not believe that he was about to watch these mysterious heroes defeat this monster, could not believe that he was _saved._

Cili’s heart dropped like a stone as the creature lashed out with its snapping teeth, forcing the cloaked figure to jump back, leaving just enough room for the gargoyle to swing out with a muscled arm. The back of its taloned hand caught Cili’s defender across the midsection, batting them aside. As the figure tumbled to the ground, their hood fell back, revealing a head of shoulder-length, dark, and wavy hair. The face underneath was tan and ruggedly handsome, distinguishable by a well-kept beard and a scar that crossed a single eyebrow.

The beast shoved away from the wall, lurching toward the doors out of the Temple in a desperate attempt to escape with its life. But then the other figure was there, moving faster than a wicked wind as they darted forward and struck with their gauntleted fist, catching the gargoyle with a blow so savage and powerful, the weakened creature rocked backward, stunned.

Like the gears in a well-oiled machine, the man on the ground swung his legs out, catching the beast by its shadowy ankles. The Shadow creature slammed into the ground just as the man rolled out of the way and shoved himself up to his knees. He brandished his dagger once more, stabbing clean through the monster’s shoulder to pin it to the ground.

His voice was low and gruff as he demanded, “Do it!”

Cili watched in awe as the taller figure unsheathed the sword at their side—the strangest blade Cili had ever seen, crafted of steel but threaded through with a blueish, crystalline substance that resembled forks of lightning. The figure lifted the sword high, a silver glow— _The Light,_ Cili realized—emanating from their hands and spearing down the blade as they stabbed down, piercing the gargoyle’s chest, and presumably, its heart

There was a bright flash and Cili watched as the Shadow beast dissipated into nothingness.

When the Light faded, Cili gaped at the space where the creature had once been. There was nothing left behind to indicate that it had ever existed within this temple, nothing but a few soot stains on the milky white marble floors.

A soft, tired sigh drew Cili’s attention away from the marks on the floor and he looked up in time to see the taller figure rest the tip of their sword against the floor and lean against it as if winded. The man quickly retrieved the blades that had clattered to the floor after the Shadow beast disappeared and tucked them away before snatching the arrows as well. He clambered to his feet just as his hooded companion straightened, nodding gratefully as they slid the offered arrows back into their quiver and sheathed that peculiar sword.

Cili watched in awe as his rescuers righted themselves, the realization dawning on him. “You’re Saints, aren’t you?” he breathed, slowly pushing himself away from the base of Damaris’ statue. “That’s why you saved me.”

Immediately, Cili’s rescuers stiffened, their attention snapping to him for the first time since they arrived as if they had just remembered he was there.

“Aw, hells,” the man muttered beneath his breath as he quickly yanked the hood of his cloak up, concealing his face beneath the shadows once more.

The two figures wordlessly glanced at each other as Cili’s gaze flicked between them, awaiting an answer. He could not believe it. They had heard his prayer. The Saints had come. _The Saints_ —

“We aren’t Saints of Light.” The voice that replied was dulcet and sonorous—a woman’s. Cili thought he could listen to her speak all day.

“But I saw you use the Light,” Cili insisted, shaking his head as he got to his feet. There was still a slight tremor in his legs, his body still thrumming with adrenaline, although he paid no notice. “I prayed for you and you came—”

“We aren’t Saints,” the woman repeated gently, glancing over her shoulder at her companion before she took a slight step forward. “We’re just… devout followers of the Light. Purging the realm of darkness.”

Cili tilted his head, leaning forward in an attempt to see under the woman’s hood. Sensing his efforts, the woman pulled away and Cili frowned, although his disappointment was short-lived. Another thought crossed his mind. “So you’re… like adventurers? Heroes, like those in the storybooks?”

Cili had a feeling the woman was smiling as she tilted her head to the side. “Something like that.”

Cili nodded slowly, his gaze sliding from her concealed face to the soot stains that marred the floors. “What was that thing?”

“Just a monster,” the woman replied. “A bad guy. But it’s gone now. You don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

Cili chewed the inside of his lip, sidestepping away from the spot where the creature had died. The danger was gone, but he still felt unsettled. “Will more come?”

It was the man who replied this time. “Not if we can help it.”

Cili frowned, unconvinced, but did not reply.

As if sensing his unease, the woman reached out with nimble fingers and swiped something off of the man’s person, much to his dismay, but before her companion could protest, she knelt before Cili.

“Do you want to know what you can do if one of those beasts ever comes back?” she asked gently.

Cili’s eyes widened. He was nodding before he even realized he was doing so.

The woman held up her hand. Between her slender fingers was a small, sheathed knife. But Cili’s attention was not on the blade. Instead, his gaze lingered on her scar flecked skin, which was a pearlescent shade of blue and horribly scarred as if it had been severely burned. A single gold ring adorned her thumb. 

The woman took Cili’s hand and pressed the hilt of the blade into his palm as she spoke. “The priests at the Temple will teach you how to protect yourself and others,” she told him. “That sort of training will be invaluable. But magic won’t always be there to help you, especially if you choose not to use it.”

Cili’s brow furrowed. “But why—”

The woman shook her head. “That is a choice you will make when you are older and understand the world better. And you must make it for yourself. But until then, you should know how to defend yourself without magic, too. Just in case.”

She curled Cili’s fingers around the hilt of the blade. “This can help protect you, but you must only use it if you are in grave danger, understand?”

She waited for Cili to show that he did. When he nodded, she continued. 

“If one of those beasts ever comes again,” she said slowly, a teacher guiding a student. “You take this—” She squeezed his hand, guiding it toward her chest. “—and put it here. Understand?”

Cili swallowed. “Yes.”

He looked up then, peering beneath the woman’s hood. He just barely glimpsed her pointed ears and a blur of green that was so bright, he thought they might be gemstones, and caught a whiff of starflowers, pine, and mist, before she pulled away. The woman dropped his hand as she straightened and stepped back.

“Be careful,” she instructed him. “And only use that when absolutely necessary.”

Cili nodded.

The woman stared at him for a few moments longer, her gaze heavy without being seen. Then she bowed her head. “May the Light guide you.”

Cili echoed her response, still shell-shocked as she turned on her heel and faced her companion.

“Uh, yeah,” the man said, reaching into the folds of his cloak. When he pulled his hand out, a glittering silver coin danced between his fingertips. He flicked it towards Cili, who caught it against his chest, confused.

“This’ll be our secret, yeah?” the man prompted, his hood shifting as he gazed around the Temple and sighed. “Bet they don’t pay you enough for this stuff. Wandering around creepy hallways at night.”

Cili did not know how to tell him that the Temple did not pay him at all, so he only nodded and replied, “Yes.”

“Right,” the man said slowly, before turning on his heel to follow his companion. As he went, he gave a lazy salute. “Light guide you, kid.”

Cili watched, stunned as his two rescuers made their way toward the doors that led out of the temple, their whispers carrying in the empty hallway.

_“Please tell me you did not just bribe him.”_

_“Yeah, well you’re the one who taught him to kill a man, so I don’t think either of us are winning role model of the year, kit.”_

Cili waited until they were halfway down the marble steps that led up to the Temple entrance before he scrambled after them, hiding behind the door to watch them go. They both moved like shadows, lithe and nimble as they stuck to the darkness and leaned against each other, as inconspicuous as any other couple wandering around the city after a night in the taverns. 

Bewitched by the two figures that had just saved his life with magic and steel—he was still not convinced they weren’t Saints—Cili followed them as quietly as possible off the Temple grounds and into the misty streets of Whitetower.

It was not until they reached the end of the block that his rescuers straightened, putting a casual distance between them. As they shifted apart, Cili saw why.

Cili watched from behind a barrel, mist swirling around his calves as his rescuers met up with two more cloaked figures, hidden in the shadows of an apartment that sat atop a shoemaker’s shop, which was closed for the night.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” the woman murmured, her voice nearly inaudible as she brushed her hand along the slope of another figure’s shoulder. Her other hand twisted behind her back, the mist churning with it. “Where it’s _safe._ ”

“Oh?” the figure replied liltingly with a teasing edge as his head fell to the side. “Are _you_ giving _me_ orders now?”

A low laugh filled the air, full of warmth and affection. The sound was so entrancing, Cili almost didn’t notice that the mist had thickened around them, nearly concealing his saviors from sight. By the time the woman finished laughing , they were just fading blurs in the fog. 

“I would never do such a thing,” Cili thought he heard the woman reply, “Your Majesty.”

Cili’s breath hitched and he moved to follow, but the fog was so thick, he could barely see his own hands.

He tried to find the mysterious figures by sound alone, but when the mist cleared, they were gone.


	2. The Adventure Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spread across the kingdom of Morella, our heroes prepare to do whatever it takes to forge alliances.

_ Nia Ellarious felt like she was on fire. _

_ She stood atop the altar, tendrils of Shadow wicking off her body like dark flames as she looked out across the teeming hordes of Shadow guards. Familiar figures battled on in the midst of the horde—two elves with flowing black locks, an orc with burgundy hair, and a man with a scar on his brow. They were so familiar, and yet…  _

_ Nia did not know them. She did not know herself. _

_ She gazed at the scene before her as if through a haze, a mere bystander made to stand witness to the history that was being made here today. Nia felt a burning sensation streak down her arm and watched with nothing but cold detachment she lifted her hand toward the mass. The Shadow poured down her fingers, coalescing into a single, long and jagged spike, its wicked tip pointed directly at— _

_ A shock went through Nia’s body as her gaze fell upon the face of her target, the human man with the scarred brow. He was… He was— _

_ He was her friend. _

_ And she was not herself. _

_ Nia screamed at herself to lower her arm but her body would not obey. She was a prisoner, trapped inside of her own body as something pushed against her control, another unworldly and malicious presence that smothered her will. _

_ Nia raged against it as the deadly spear continued to sharpen. She fought with everything she had to resist the will of the other being that occupied her body, that used her like a puppet. And resisting  _ hurt. 

_ Nia felt as if she was trapped deep beneath the sea, being crushed by the horrible pressure as she struggled to regain control over her body. A wave of rage and irritation rolled through her, but the feeling was foreign. Not hers. _

_ The being that smothered her, the Dreadlord, was fighting back. _

_ As she struggled, her attention flicked from the man’s face— _ Mal _ , she could recall his name from the depths of her hazy mind—to  _ Tyril, _ a bloodied, vengeful spirit, and then to  _ Imtura, _ battered and bruised but still fighting, and finally— _

_ Nia broke free and wrenched her arm down to the side with a spluttering gasp, black blood dribbling over her lips. She stumbled back, pain overwhelming her senses, and nearly tripped over the steps of the altar when a hand gripped her shoulder, holding her upright. _

_ Nia looked up. She could taste the blood on her tongue, like copper and charcoal. _

_ The other elf— _ Iliana _ —stood before her, clad in white and gold armor. Her lip was split and blood matted her hair, trickling down the side of her face from a wound at her temple. In her free hand, she held it. The Blade of Light. _

_ “Please,” Nia begged. She did not know what she was pleading for, her life or her death. She did not know what kind of mercy she sought. She only knew that she wanted this to end, that she did not want her friends to hurt any longer.  _

_ Nia could feel the Dreadlord resisting, clawing at her insides to regain his control. They were running out of time. Nia shoved against him, pushing him back with every bit of strength she had. She lifted up her arm, fingers reaching for Iliana’s hand on her shoulder but they fell short, grazing the center of her own chest. Nia swallowed hard, nearly choking on the blood that swelled up in her throat. _

_ “Please,” she said again. And this time, she knew what she wanted. _

_ Iliana’s brows drew together and she nodded in understanding. Distantly, Nia knew she had lived through this exact moment before. She could still recall Iliana’s hoarse plea of  _ Forgive me.

_ But that was not what her friend said. _

_ “You are Nia,” Iliana whispered softly but not weakly. “And only you get to choose what to do with your life.” _

_ For a moment, Nia’s resolve faltered. But she only shook her head. There was no choice here, really. Not for her. When it came to her own life and the fate of the world…  _

_ “I choose this,” Nia replied, forcing a shaky smile onto her lips. “I will always choose this.” _

_ Iliana’s lips pressed into a trembling line, her gaze full of pity. A single crystalline tear slid down her cheek as she shifted forward, and drove the Blade of Light through Nia’s heart. _

_ Nia cried out, in shock and in pain, as the Blade of Light scorched through her chest. The Shadow was expunged from her body in a torrent of darkness and she could  _ feel _ the Dreadlord die, banished into nothingness, into the void. Her heart seized around the sword, desperately trying to keep beating in her ruined chest. _

_ “Forgive me,” Iliana croaked, but when Nia looked up from the Blade, it was Imtura who gripped the onyx and gold hilt. _

_ Imtura shook her head sadly, her brows bunched together as she murmured, “Forgive me.” _

_ Nia’s vision blurred and suddenly, Tyril stood before her, driving the Blade in just a little further, although sorrow and regret was etched into every line of his ageless face as he pleaded, “Forgive me.” _

_ And finally, Mal stood before her, his countenance twisted in grief and pain. When he spoke, his voice was choked with emotion, strained in a way she had only heard from him once, in another world, at another precipice between life and death. _

_ “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Mal rasped, his knuckles growing white as he clutched the hilt tighter. “We were supposed to protect you.  _ I  _ was supposed to protect you.” _

_ Nia opened her mouth to respond, to assure him that this wasn’t his fault, that it wasn’t  _ anyone’s  _ fault, but only blood bubbled out. Mal’s expression only grew more agonized, as if he were the one dying in her arms. He drew in a shuddering breath. _

_ Nia knew what he was going to say. And if she could speak, she knew what she would say as well. _

__ I forgive you. I forgive you all,  _ Nia thought, just as Mal uttered those two words and ripped the Blade of Light from her chest. _

* * *

Nia jerked upright in her bed, gasping as if she had just broken through tumultuous waves to come up for air. Instinctively, she clawed at her chest, yanking aside the folds of her silken nightclothes to confirm—

Nia breathed a sigh of relief as her gaze fell across the smooth expanse of her chest, marred only by a jagged, silvery scar. There was no gaping hole, burnt by magic, no tendrils of darkness edged with light. Nia forced herself to inhale and exhale measured breaths as she ran her trembling fingers along the edge of that ugly scar, reminding herself that it had been born out of another battle.

Nia closed her eyes, running through the mantra she had developed whenever she had these nightmares to ground herself.

_ I am Nia Ellarious. I am guided by the Light, a protector of the people, and I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid. _

By the time she had finished, the shaking in Nia’s hands had quelled and her breathing had levelled out. She felt real. She felt like herself.

Nia opened her eyes and finally took in her surroundings. She sat in a plush bed laden with finely woven sheets of silk at the center of a spacious and tastefully decorated bedroom that was located in the upper levels of the Starfury manor. Wide arcs of moonlight streamed into the room, quicksilver splashed on the glossy stone floor. Gauzy curtains fluttered in the pleasantly cool breeze that streamed through the open doors leading onto Nia’s balcony. The moon was still high in the sky, its pallid face reminding Nia that morning was still far away. 

Nia sighed heavily, falling back against the soft pillows with a muffled  _ whump! _ She had a big day tomorrow; Tyril was taking her to sit in on a debate held by the Houses Fortellane and Sunstrider about which dynasty yielded the most impactful pieces of elven art. The debate itself was not important. The purpose of attending was simply to get the other elves of Undermount more accustomed to Nia’s presence before she and Tyril tried to convince the elven Houses to leave the city, but the thought of going still made her a bit nervous.

The elves had received her well enough when Tyril gave her a tour of the city soon after they arrived a little over two weeks ago, remembering that she had helped them defeat Duchess Xenia at the Ancestral Masquerade. But she could tell that the elves still thought of her as an outsider. For the first time, Nia was not defined first by her station as a priestess. No, to the elves, she was human before all else.

If Nia was being honest with herself, a part of her liked that. Here in Undermount, all of the elves worshipped the Light. Her faith was not a defining aspect of her character. Here, Nia could be something else,  _ someone  _ else. Perhaps she could find the person she would have become if she had been allowed to choose her fate for herself, outside of the Temple.

Nia inhaled deeply, her chest thrumming with a heady mixture of apprehension and excitement. Tomorrow, she would show the Undermount elves that she was worthy of their trust, that  _ humans _ were worthy of their aid. She would not let her friends back in Whitetower, their new king, down. She once again had a purpose, a job that was not set upon her by the Temple, and she would fulfill it.

Nia curled her fingers into the silken sheets, her renewed resolve replacing the fear she had awoken with. For a moment, Nia worried that her last dream might keep her awake, but when she closed her eyes, sleep, dark and mercifully dreamless, took her swiftly.

* * *

Three knocks sounded on the door before it opened and shut quietly. “Captain.”

Imtura Tal Kaelen looked up from the tome spread open on the grand wooden desk in her quarters, a sour expression on her face. She scowled at the cabin boy, her irritation already piqued, and snapped,  _ “What.” _

The cabin boy paled slightly and Imtura inwardly sighed. He was a young orc, a new addition to the crew that they had picked up in Port Parnassus after her last cabin boy died in the battle at the palace. If she had snapped at any other member of her crew the way she snapped at this boy, they would have barely batted an eye. She made a mental note to be a little kinder to him, at least until the rest of his crew thickened his skin.

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Someone is here to see you.”

Imtura’s brows lowered. Someone was here to see her? They were in the middle of the damned ocean. Unless they had run into another ship, but surely her quartermaster, Kraglin, would have notified her first… 

Despite herself, Imtura’s voice held a menacing edge. “You better not be pulling my leg, boy.”

If possible, he paled even further. “No! I—”

Before the poor boy could combust from nerves, Imtura sighed and waved her hand, sinking back into her chair. “Let ‘em in.”

The boy snapped his mouth shut and nodded before rushing out of the cabin, clearly grateful to get out of Imtura’s warpath. As she waited, Imtura massaged her temples, kicking her feet up on her desk. She glanced at the tome, which was packed with dense, cramped handwriting, and contained information about the various orc Clans and their customs. She’d been poring over the volume for the better part of the evening beneath the light of the lantern that sat at the corner of her desk.

Ugh,  _ reading.  _ She hated the activity. It was perhaps—no,  _ definitely _ —the reason she was in such a foul mood tonight. That, and they expected to arrive in Flotilla very soon. And when they did… 

Imtura snarled under her breath, turning her gaze to the glass panels that lined the wall behind her desk, overlooking the ocean. Rain pattered against the windows, streaking down from the grey, swirling storm clouds. Sporadic flashes of lightning illuminated the roiling waves, the wake of the ship nearly pearlescent against the dark sea.

When they arrived at Flotilla, Imtura would face her mother, the Queen, and plead with her to aid Morella in fighting the Empire of Ash. But if Ventra refused… 

Imtura glared hard at the window panes, saltwater and rain spraying against the exterior and streaming down the surface. In all her years, she had never wanted to become Queen of Flotilla, even if it  _ was  _ her birthright. 

Giving orders to her crew was a burden, but it was one Imtura could bear to carry, for she not only loved her crewmates, but she had earned her position as captain. And as captain, she could go anywhere in the Cartesian Sea she pleased. If she followed her mother’s footsteps, she would lose whatever freedom she had stolen for herself these past few years, and giving orders would no longer just be her burden, but her life.

But that had been her view  _ then. _ Before she had friends all over the kingdom who felt like family. Friends who were counting on her.

Now… Imtura did not know how she felt about taking her mother’s throne. Maybe, just maybe, it was a sacrifice worth making. But she hoped, perhaps a little selfishly, that she would never have to find out.

“You must run a tight ship around here,” someone mused. “Poor kid looked scared to death. Or maybe you orcs are just easily frightened.”

Imtura swiveled in her chair, brows raising before her lips split into a crooked grin. “Morrigan. Shoulda known you were the only one who could randomly show up on my ship in the middle of the ocean.”

Morrigan Dane of the Avian Kingdom stood near the door of Imtura’s cabin, her coppery hair plaited back, stray wisps plastered to her temple by rainwater, color high in her cheeks, and dressed in sturdy, weather-resistant flying leathers. The chestnut and white feathers of her wings glistened in the lantern light. 

Imtura noted that Morrigan must have just touched down. She could still smell the saltwater and rain on the other woman’s skin.

“Why?” Morrigan replied liltingly as the end of her braid continued to drip water onto the floorboards. “Because I have wings or because no other flyer is brave enough to weather the storm?”

Imtura tilted her head, lowering her feet to the floor and bracing her forearms on the desk. “Bravery, is that what you call it? Maybe it was foolishness.”

Morrigan chuckled, shaking her head. “I’ve been flying all my life. Through rainstorms, hail, and blizzards… When you are capable and can trust in your own abilities with confidence that is not misplaced, then there should be no reason to fear a simple storm.”

Morrigan shrugged, waving a gloved hand toward Imtura. “Surely you do the same, Captain? You are, after all, sailing through the middle of a storm. A novice would have gone around. Or turned back.”

Imtura huffed through her nose and conceded, “That is a fair point.”

“Indeed,” Morrigan agreed, mirroring Imtura’s slight smile. “Besides,” she added, clearing her throat, “had I not volunteered to fly, you would not be receiving  _ this.  _ Your king sends his regards.” 

She held up her hand, and between her fingertips sat a goldenrod envelope, its edges slightly soggy but otherwise perfectly intact. 

Imtura arched a brow, interest piqued. She got to her feet and rounded the edge of her desk to take the letter from Morrigan’s hands. Her gaze did not leave Morrigan’s slate green eyes as she pulled a small knife from her boot and cut the envelope open.

“Volunteered, eh?” Imtura teased, giving the other woman a sly look. “You know, if you want to see me, you can just say so. We don’t need this whole messenger business.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes, slugging Imtura in the shoulder. Imtura’s grin only broadened as she saw the edge of Morrigan’s lips curve ever so slightly, the apples of her freckled cheeks rising as if she was trying to suppress a smile.

Morrigan clucked her tongue, jutting her chin toward Imtura’s hands. “Just read the letter, orc.”

Imtura chuckled lightly beneath her breath but obliged her, leaning her weight against the edge of her desk as she withdrew the folded parchment from its envelope. She immediately recognized Aerin’s neat and flowing script as she unfolded the letter and began to read. She smirked when she saw the way Aerin addressed her.  _ Privateer Tal Kaelen.  _ Not  _ Lady  _ and certainly not  _ Princess.  _ The palace rat knew her better than that.

Imtura’s smile, however, melted from her face as she read his letter, her expression transforming from one of amusement to one of deep consternation. Exhaling heavily, she rubbed her eyes and held the letter out to Morrigan, who waved her hand. 

“I already know about it,” she explained. “I saw it first hand when I was in Whitetower delivering some schematics from Borte.”

“Right then.” Imtura nodded, set Aerin’s letter aside, and folded her arms across her chest. 

“So. Shadow beasts and strange murders in the capital,” Imtura mused aloud, swiping her tongue against the back of her lip ring as she mulled the contents of the letter over. “Sounds like they’ve got their hands full.”

Aerin’s letter had been brief. After asking after the wellbeing of Imtura and her crew, Aerin had described a series of strange and rather brutal murders that had been reported within Whitetower and scattered about the Morellian countryside. In conjunction with this was the sudden appearance of Shadow beasts, leading Imtura to draw the same conclusion Aerin had: the two events were related. But if the Shadow beasts were present in Morella, that could only mean one thing.

Rifts from the Shadow Realm were being opened.

_ I have already written Tyril and Nia to inform them of these events,  _ Aerin had said.  _ We’ve no way to tell where these rifts will open or who is causing these breaches. Keep an eye out for anything strange in Flotilla and, please, stay safe. _

“Hands full indeed,” Morrigan murmured, all traces of humor wiped from her face in favor of a grave expression. She tilted her head, green eyes scanning Imtura’s face. “Do you want me to bring a letter back to him?”

Imtura straightened, her gaze flitting to Morrigan’s soaked wings. “You’re going back tonight?”

Morrigan smirked. “I was thinking about it. Unless you’re offering a place for me to stay?”

“Ha!” Imtura barked out a laugh, amused by the other woman’s boldness. She let her gaze pointedly flick to her bed, which sat against the wall on the right side of her cabin, covered in thick furs and blankets. “You could stay here if you’d like. The captain’s quarters are the warmest place on the ship.”

“Is that so?” 

“Orc’s honor,” Imtura replied, although her attention fell to the letter that sat beside her on the desk. She sighed, shaking her head. “But first thing’s first. I should write back before I forget. Keep the King updated—”

Imtura was interrupted by the crooning call of a bullhorn, sounding in two short blasts followed by one long, suspended note. Dread pooled in her stomach. She knew what that meant. 

Imtura turned around, moving toward the porthole that sat in the starboard side of her cabin. Outside, the storm seemed to lessen up to a light drizzle, watery moonlight trickling through the dark clouds. Fog hung low in the sky, drifting over the depthless sea, but amidst it all, Imtura could make out the golden cluster of lights, bobbing on the waves.

Home.

Imtura’s expression darkened. Usually, when she returned to Flotilla, she harbored at least a few shimmering kernels of excitement. Being at Flotilla, especially when her mother was away or she managed to enter the floating city undetected, meant that for a short while, Imtura could shirk her duties as captain and get lost in the crowd. For a short while, she did not have to answer to anyone  _ or _ give orders.

This time, she did not have that luxury.

Overhead, Imtura could hear the thundering footsteps of her crew as they scrambled around the deck, preparing to weigh anchor at the city. They had not taken the long way around to come from what Imtura liked to call “Flotilla’s arse end,” which meant the patrols would see the  _ Wraith _ coming. And if the patrols knew Imtura was coming, then so would her mother.

Imtura curled her fingers into fists, pushing away from her desk, her unwritten letter momentarily forgotten. She swiped her axes and new war hammer, hooking them onto her belt and grabbed her overcoat off of her bedpost as she prepared to join her crew on the deck.

She paused at the door, one hand resting on the handle as she shrugged on her coat and turned to Morrigan. “Well, birdie? Are you staying or are you going?” 

Despite everything, she managed to put on a roguish grin. She might have been a princess, but let it be known that Imtura Tal Kaelen was a pirate through and through. “Things are about to get interesting.”

Morrigan’s brows lifted and she tilted her head, not even bothering to hide her confusion. But, Imtura noted to her immense delight, Morrigan’s curiosity was just as obvious. 

Good. She liked women who had a taste for adventure. 

Morrigan shrugged, returning Imtura’s crooked smile with one of her own. “I think I can afford to stay a little while longer.”

* * *

Mal Volari dropped into a crouch, barely making a sound as he landed on the old weathered floorboards of the White Rose. He gazed around the dark room, listening for any sounds, then cautiously stood, careful not to bump his elbows on the wooden chair that sat beside the window. He was in the back room of a bakery, surrounded by sacks of flour and baskets of fruit. A large oven sat on the other side of the room, long since cooled.

He inhaled deeply, smelling the still-strong aroma of baked rye bread, peach pie, and powdered sugar. The evidence of a hard day’s work. Mal felt his chest warm and swell with pride.

Before he delved further into the beloved bakery that sat on the corner of Market Street and Coastal, Mal turned to peer out of the window he had crept through and gazed into the street beyond. After a few moments, he turned away, satisfied. It didn’t appear as if anyone had followed him here. He’d taken extra precautions along the way—

“Who the hells are you and what are you doing in our shop?”

Mal whirled, shuffling back as a bread knife was shoved beneath his chin. Instinctively, his fingers inched toward the blades concealed beneath his dark clothes, but then he saw who it was.

“Woah, easy, easy!” he said in a rush, throwing up his hands in surrender. He knew how bad this looked, a random man breaking into a bakery dressed like a thief. “It’s me!” he insisted, yanking down the black cloth that concealed the lower half of his face before tugging back his hood. “Isa, it’s me!”

Isa’s dark eyes widened, face slackening with shock. “Mal?” 

Mal tilted his chin up, avoiding the serrated edge of her kitchen knife as he said sheepishly, “Hey, pound cake.”

Isa dropped the knife from her brother’s chin and flung it onto the wooden table before she surged forward, throwing her arms around his neck as she questioned breathlessly, “What the hells are you doing here?”

Mal had only just begun to hug his sister back when she retracted her arms, shoving at his chest. When he rocked back, he saw that her eyes were narrowed, lips twisted into a pout as she glared at him with her hands on her hips. For a moment, he felt almost stunned. Isa was a spitting image of their mother, down to her steadfast mannerisms and everything.

“What the  _ hells are you doing here?” _ she repeated, this time in an angry hiss. She snatched the flour-stained cloth that had been sitting on her shoulder and swatted him with it. “I haven’t heard from you in  _ months! _ First, I found out that you were fleeing the capital, and then about two months ago, you returned to… to what? Save the kingdom? Suddenly you’re no longer a fugitive but a hero once more? We’re in the middle of a war and you couldn’t be bothered to drop by and say  _ hello?  _ To your own sister?”

Mal winced, sheepishly scrubbing the back of his neck as his little sister berated him. A part of him, the cocky adventurer he had become, wanted to protest or argue back with her, but he shoved the impulse down, knowing her anger was well-deserved. And he knew Isa well enough to understand that she wasn’t really angry. She was  _ worried. _

Well. That only made Mal feel that much worse about what he was about to tell her.

Not quite ready to breach  _ that _ topic yet, Mal said, “You’re whisper-yelling. Anka home?”

Isa’s brows inched up higher on her forehead. Then they dropped back down, her glare intensifying. “Yes, Anka’s upstairs sleeping. It’s nearly two in the morning and she’s  _ my wife, _ why wouldn’t she be home?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” Mal shrugged, leaning his hip against the table. “Taverns are still open, the city never sleeps… You never know what people get up to at night.”

Isa snapped the rag at him again. “We have jobs, Mal,” she snapped.  _ “I  _ have a job. That’s why I’m still up, preparing measurements for tomorrow. We can’t spend all night drinking.” She pointed a stern finger at him. “And don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re avoiding my question. Why haven’t you visited since you came home?”

“I’ve been busy,” Mal replied vaguely, drumming his fingers against the tabletop, unable to stop moving. He was always like this when he was anxious, eager to move. It was part of the reason why he preferred to wing a situation rather than waste time planning. He wished he could pull out one of his knives to twirl, but he had a feeling doing that would only make Isa worry about why he was walking around like a portable armory.

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she said dryly, folding her arms across her chest. “You think I haven’t heard the rumors? The Whitetower Reaper is back?”

Mal fought to hide his wince. “You know how this town is. People are always gossiping. Rumors are rumors.”

Isa’s eyes narrowed. “And are they? Are they really just rumors?”

Mal closed his eyes, exhaling a long breath through his nose.

“Mal.”

He did not respond.

_ “Mal.” _

Mal opened his eyes, then said in a singsong voice.  _ “Isa.” _

“Tell me it’s not true,” she breathed, and in the span of a second, her expression flipped from furious and full of suspicion to one of dread and denial. “Tell me those are just rumors. That you aren’t… that the Reaper isn’t…” She shook her head and the moonlight that streamed through the window made her watery eyes shine like pallid moons. “Just tell me it isn’t true.”

Mal looked at his younger sister for a long moment, then shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

She sucked in a sharp, pained breath. “Mal.”

He looked away, ashamed by the sorrow he detected in her voice. He heard the wooden chair scrape against the floorboards as Isa pulled it back and sat down heavily before the table, folding her hands together. After a moment, Mal seated himself in the other chair, mirroring her posture.

They sat in silence for a long while, the recent revelations sinking in. Mal hated to think that this wasn’t even the worst of the news he’d brought.

At last, Isa simply asked, “Why?”

Mal arched a brow. “Why what?”

“Why are you…” Isa’s dark gaze flicked to the open window, her face tightening with caution, although Mal was reasonably sure that no one was outside listening. Nevertheless, he reached out and drew the window shut. Satisfied, Isa cleared her throat. “...stealing?”

Mal tapped his foot against the wooden boards, realized he was doing that, then stopped, crossing his ankle over his knee instead. “It’s… complicated.”

Isa shook her head. “Do you need money?” she asked quietly, her gaze full of concern. “I only ask because… Not because—You know I’ve never thought badly of you because of what you did with the Guild, right? You did what you had to to keep us both alive. I need you to know that I will never hold that against you. I’m only asking because… well, I thought you never wanted to get involved with the Guild ever again. Any of it.”

Isa leaned forward, reaching out to lay her hand atop Mal’s. “If money is the issue, I can help you—”

Mal frowned. “Isa.”

“—the bakery has been doing really well, lately and—”

_ “Isa.” _ Mal repeated more forcefully, quelling his sister into silence. “It’s not about money. Trust me. I’m doing just fine there.”

Isa blinked in confusion. “Then why—”

Mal shook his head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m trying to!” Isa insisted, laying her other hand over his as well and squeezing tightly. “Help me. Help me understand, Mal. I can’t stand it when you go missing for months without a word. If you’re in any sort of danger—”

“I’m not in danger,” he assured her.  _ At least not right now. _

“But something is wrong,” Isa pressed, her eyes pleading. “I know you. You look like a man who wants to run. If I can’t help you in whatever it is that is going on, then at least tell me what I should expect. You’re my brother, Mal. The only family I have. And if something were to happen to you, there’s a good chance I would never find out until it is far too late.”

Mal’s frown only deepened, chest tightening. “You have Anka,” he said weakly, but it was a poor attempt to soothe his sister’s fears. He knew they were more than justified. They were shared.

“Please, Mal,” Isa said softly. “Just tell me.”

Mal looked at her for a few long moments, the worry and dread in his sister’s expression stirring his own. He was afraid. He was so damned afraid of what was about to happen, afraid that once it did, he would never be able to walk away from it. He had gotten out, gotten lucky once. It was only a matter of time until that luck ran out, if it hadn’t already.

He had once told Tyril that the reason he was always smiling was because he was always a little afraid. Well, now, Mal was very afraid, but this time, instead of throwing on a cocky grin and hurling himself into the fray, he did something else.

He told his sister the truth. All of it.

Mal caught Isa up on everything that had happened, from running into Iliana and Kade in Riverbend all the way to winning the Battle of Ash, becoming one of Anneith’s spies, and their crackpot of a plan to gain allies.

It took about an hour to fill his sister in, which was far more time than Mal had hoped to spend here. He would have to leave soon if he wanted to finish up his reconnaissance and get into bed before sunrise. He needed a good and long rest if he was going to get through the following evening.

“So let me get this straight,” Isa said after staring at the table for a long while in complete silence, slowly working through all that Mal had told her. “You’re a spy now. You’ve been thieving this past month to get the Thieves Guild’s attention because it is your job to rejoin the Guild and forge an alliance between King Aerin and a bunch of Whitetower assassins.”

“Basically,” Mal shrugged, bracing his elbow on the table and resting his forehead in his palm. At that moment, he would have given anything for a drink. A strong drink. Like Imtura’s orcish bourbon. “Although an alliance is too concrete of a term. It’s more of a deal. Aerin pays them and they fight when we tell them to. Although no one else can know that it’s the King who’s paying them out.” Mal sat forward, fixing his sister with a stern look. “Which means you can’t tell anyone about this, got it? Not even Anka.”

To his surprise and immense relief, Isa only nodded, unbothered by all of the secrecy. “But I still don’t understand why it has to be you. The Thieves Guild isn’t made up of… of killers.” 

“No,” Mal agreed. “Not exclusively, anyway. But thieves, like yours truly,  _ do  _ make good spies.” He grinned, waving at himself, but when Isa did not return his smile, he cleared his throat and added seriously, “The Thieves Guild is our only ticket in.”

“To the underworld,” Isa clarified and Mal nodded grimly. 

Isa sighed, hiding her face in her hands. After a few moments, she lifted her head, letting her hands fall to the table, helpless. “This is dangerous, Mal. I don’t like it. You’re too well-known. People think you’re a hero. Every time you rob another noble blind, you put everything you have earned at risk.”

“Easy, Isa,” Mal said soothingly, reaching across the table to take her hand. “No one outside the Guild knows that the Whitetower Reaper and the King’s Champion are the same man, remember? And even if people did, it wouldn’t matter. Getting aid from the guilds is more important than my reputation.”

Isa narrowed her eyes. “Is that what you believe or what the King has made you believe?”

Mal shook his head. It was something he might have said once, a statement born out of his own mistrust and ideals. Truthfully, Mal had always been better off alone, caring only for himself. A part of him shared in his sister’s fear that getting involved with the Guild once more put the life he’d made as an adventurer at risk. But another part of him, a newer one, that had friends and loyalties, said that none of that mattered. His reputation meant nothing to him when the people he cared about were in danger.

Gods, what had the party done to him? Turned him into a real sap. He wanted to blame Iliana for this, for reeling him into helping her find her brother. But he had a feeling his new willingness to lay everything on the line for a bunch of misfits had more to do with the gentle priestess than anyone else.

“I believe it, Isa,” Mal said earnestly. “This isn't just about me. It’s about you, and Anka, and my friends, and everyone else in the Realm. If we aren’t ready for when the Empire of Ash returns, everything will be lost.”

Isa stared at him for a long moment and Mal saw in his sister’s face that she also believed him. At last, she remarked, “You’ve changed.”

That got a wry smile out of him. “I know.”

Isa nodded. “It’s a good change.”

Mal huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. I think so too.”

Isa smiled slightly at him, a glimmer of pride in her eyes. Mal could not help but think that despite everything that had happened to him and his sister—the Nooks and Crannies, the orphanage, and the Thieves Guild—the two of them had turned out alright. He hoped his mother would be proud.

Mal stretched, raising his arms over his head and flexing his feet before pushing himself to stand. He reached out, rustling Isa’s dark hair. “I should get going, pound cake, let you finish up your work so you can go back to sleep. Tell Anka I said—”

“Wait.” Isa shoved her chair back and stood as well, gripping her brother’s forearm. “When do you go back to the Guild?” 

Mal sighed wearily at the reminder. “Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Isa repeated, aghast. When Mal nodded, she asked, “Do you know what they’re going to do?”

“Test me, I assume,” Mal said blandly. “Make sure I’ve got the mettlle to run with them, especially after I was so eager to leave before. I can only imagine what tasks they’ll put me up to.”

“Will it be dangerous?” Isa asked.

“Potentially,” Mal admitted. Then—He sighed, gazing at the ceiling. “Probably. Almost definitely.”

Isa nodded slowly, her grip on his arm loosening until her hand fell back to her side. Her fingers curled into her palm. “Is that why you came here tonight? In case anything were to happen tomorrow?”

Mal nodded slowly. “Yeah. You were right earlier. You have a right to know what’s going on. So if I don’t—”

Mal was abruptly cut off when Isa wrapped her arms around him, squeezing so tightly, he wheezed, just a little bit. “Don’t,” she ordered him, her voice thick. “Don’t even think like that. You’re going to be just fine, Mal. You’re the best damn thief this city has ever seen. Whatever they throw at you tomorrow, it won’t do a single thing to stop you.”

Mal felt his chest ache at the fervor in her words. Not trusting himself to speak, he squeezed his eyes shut and held his sister tightly to his chest for what he hoped would not be the last time. 

“I’ll be back, Isa,” he said softly when she led him to the back door of her shop. He lingered in the doorway, reluctant to leave even though he knew standing out there was a risk. “I promise.”

“I know you will, Mal,” she said, silver lining her eyes. Her lip trembled as she nodded. “I know you will.”

Mal looked at his little sister for a few more moments, committing her face—so grown up and lovely, now—to memory. Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the night.

* * *

“What about this one?”

“Bar fight in the tavern. I stopped some merc from cleaving open the barkeep’s head with a broken bottle.”

Aerin let out an amused snort. “Sounds like an interesting story.”

Iliana Nightbloom awarded him a small smile, combing her fingers through the curls that fell into Aerin’s eyes as she watched him with her head propped up on her hand, elbow planted amongst the downy pillows. “They always are.”

They laid together, a heap of tangled limbs, in a large four-postered bed at the center of the grand room that currently served as the royal chambers, at least until new quarters were built in the reconstruction of the upper levels of the palace. Although he had never spoken these preferences aloud, Iliana knew he had no desire of reclaiming his old rooms, nor those of his father, the late King Arlan. 

Candles burned low in the various lanterns that were set about the room, most of them doubling as paperweights as they held down the various documents and blueprints Aerin had been studying earlier that evening. He would not admit it, but Iliana discovered that Aerin was as terrible at staying organized as he was at leaving his work to sit when it was time to rest. Hence, the reason why his work affairs always ended up scattered about his room rather than left in his study.

Aerin hummed, kissing the scar on the back of Iliana’s right hand as his fingertips wandered up the length of her forearm to a sunburst of silvery blue skin beneath her elbow. “And this one?”

“Slipped on cobblestones while running and skinned my elbow,” Iliana replied, untangling her fingers from Aerin’s hair to brush them along his bare shoulders. Over the course of the last month, she learned he had the faintest smattering of freckles there, visible now that he had regained the color the fever had leached from him. Warmth flooded her chest at the simple fact that Aerin was still here with her, the perfect picture of health.

Aerin kissed that scar too before dragging his attention away from Iliana’s right arm, all of the scars there thoroughly explored. He shifted against the sheets, hauling himself up to his forearms as he framed Iliana’s waist with his hands. His thumb brushed over a faint line of puckered skin beneath her ribs.

“This was from the night you helped me escape, wasn’t it?” Aerin questioned softly, fingers pressing tenderly into her sides.

Iliana nodded, recalling the shortsword that had caught her in the ribs as she led the city guard away from Nia’s house so Aerin and Mal could escape. “A simple mistake. Barely even a scratch.”

Aerin pinched Iliana’s side, causing her to reflexively jump. She scowled at him, although the expression lacked any heat, and pinched his shoulder in retaliation as he echoed her. “Barely even a scratch,” he said dryly, with a sardonic edge. He rolled his eyes. “You were bleeding all over Nia’s fence. I thought you were going to die.”

“So dramatic. I’m tougher than I look.”

“Ha,” Aerin huffed, brushing the back of his knuckle down her sternum. His lips twisted into a bashful smile. “That you are.”

He drew himself up the bed and over the length of Iliana’s body, face hovering just before hers. Instinctively, as if it had become second nature for her, Iliana tilted her chin up, seeking his kiss, but Aerin reached to the side, tracing the curve of her pointed ear until he met a stretch of coarse flesh. 

Aerin chewed the inside of his cheek, gaze thoughtful. “What about this one?”

“That one?” Iliana looked up, catching only the inside of his wrist in her line of sight as she reached up and laid her hand on his, touching the scar herself. She’d almost forgotten it was there. “Oh. You remember I told you I had some… trouble growing up in Riverbend. Not all of the people there were so accepting.”

As she spoke, Aerin’s eyes narrowed. He exhaled heavily through his nose, a low note of disapproval caught in the back of his throat. “That should never have happened.”

“It’s in the past now.” Iliana shrugged, dropping her hand back to her side. “I got over it a long time ago. It was just a couple of dumb kids being cruel.”

Aerin made a disgusted sound. “Being young is no excuse for being cruel. They should have paid for that.”

“They did,” Iliana replied, staring up at the canopy of the bed as she drew up the old and dusty memory. Two young men, cornered in a dark alleyway, terrorized by a willowy elfling and her blades. “Trust me. I saw to it.”

Aerin arched a brow. “Did you now?”

Iliana closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. If she thought hard enough, she could still smell the grime of the alley, the reek of piss and sweat, a testament to the fear she had sanctioned.

“Yes,” she said after a few moments had passed. “For years, I wanted revenge on the two boys that did that. But when I finally got it…” Iliana opened her eyes, shaking her head. She studied Aerin’s face, his expression open and pensive. She brushed her thumb over his right eyebrow, smoothing the fine hairs into place. 

Iliana shrugged again, letting her hand fall back upon the pillows as she continued. “It wasn’t worth it—all of the years I spent stewing over that single night, ashamed of what had happened.” She pursed her lips as she tried to capture what exactly she had felt that night and put it into words. “When I got my payback, all I felt was guilt and horror over what I’d done, for stooping to their level.” She sighed heavily, looking at him thoughtfully. “Vengeance is not always the way. You and I have both learned that.”

Aerin averted his gaze, expression darkening. “Of course.”

Iliana… was not sure if she believed that, or if learning the lesson and following it were two separate beasts. She wondered if he was thinking of his brother or his father. The man he had sought vengeance from and the one he perhaps now sought vengeance for.

Iliana frowned, taking in his distant expression. She slid her palm against his cheek, turning his face to meet her gaze as she asked, “Where are you?”

It was a small question, one she found herself asking Aerin more and more often by the day. He seemed to always be distracted, either by his work or whatever thoughts swirled around that brilliant head of his.

Aerin blinked, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He winced slightly and kissed the inside of her wrist in apology. “I’m here.”

“Good,” Iliana murmured, swiping her thumb over his cheek. “Stay here.”

Aerin gave her a wry smile. “I will try.”

His hazel gaze roamed over her face for a few long moments, so much tenderness in his expression, Iliana momentarily forgot how to breathe. Before the moment could drag on for too long, Aerin looked away. His attention fell to her left arm, which was mottled with twisting scar tissue that ran all the way from her fingertips to her shoulder. Iliana watched as his throat bobbed and the corners of his lips quirked down ever so slightly, but she was grateful when he did not comment on it. She knew the burn was hideous to look at. But when Aerin leaned down and kissed her scarred shoulder, her chest tightened, just a little bit.

Aerin’s eyes darted down, noting another tiny scar on the inside of her palm. Curious, he lifted her hand, their previous conversation already set aside. “What about this one?”

“Are you really going to ask me about every single one?” Iliana laughed, tugging her hand out of his and shoving against his shoulder. “Off of me. I’ll be stuck here all night.”

Aerin laughed, going pliant against her touch and rolling to the side, falling into the thick blankets that were heaped upon his bed. He threaded his fingers through hers and held her hand to his chest, right over the twisted mass of tissue that marked where the Nerada Stone had once been. “Perhaps that is my goal. Get you to tell me story after story so you never leave.”

At that, something in Iliana became alert once more. She stiffened, looking toward the open balcony doors. The sky was still dark, thousands of stars glittering in the sky, signifying that they were still deep in the dead of night. But… 

“No,” Aerin groaned, hiding his face in a pillow.  _ “No.” _

But, Iliana had already stayed too long.

“I should go,” she said quietly, brushing her fingers along Aerin’s spine in lieu of her apology.

Aerin sighed, lifting his head and raking his hand through his hair, fingers snagging on his curls. He pursed his lips. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

Iliana gave him a rueful smile. “I would have remembered eventually.”

“You know I value any spare moment I can steal with you,” Aerin murmured, shoving himself to a seat as Iliana began to untangle herself from the sheets. “Forgive me for trying to steal a few more.”

“You can have all of my spare moments, princeling,” she replied teasingly as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Aerin echoed wistfully and Iliana heard the blankets rustle as Aerin shifted behind her, edging closer. His touch was light on her shoulder. Tentative and supplicating. “You  _ could _ stay the night.”

Iliana laid her hand over his, craning her neck to glance over her shoulder at him. Her heart seized when she saw how softly he looked at her. “Someone would see.”

An ounce of irritation flickered across Aerin’s face that Iliana knew was directed not at her, but their situation. He brazenly asked, “So?”

Iliana laughed, squeezing his fingers as she leaned against him, pressing her back to his chest.  _ “So.  _ The King caught in bed with a member of his royal guard? It would cause an absolute scandal. And that is the last thing you need on your hands.”

Aerin yawned, his exhaustion evident and snaked his arm around her waist, fitting his chin into the crook of her neck. “If anyone sees, I’ll tell them you were just doing your job.”

Iliana rolled her eyes, glancing sidelong at him as she stated flatly, “By sleeping in your bed.”

“I want you close,” he replied, his voice low with the lull of sleep. Iliana could feel the vibrations through her spine. “For protection,” he added, almost as if in an afterthought. “Obviously.”

Iliana narrowed her eyes. “Sleeping in your bed _naked.”_

Aerin laughed drowsily, holding her tighter as he nodded his chin toward the silver plates that were laid out on a nearby chaise. “I’ll have you in your armor if that would convince you to stay.”

Iliana smiled, patting his hand as she pulled his arm from her waist. She planted a smacking kiss on his cheek that made him wrinkle his nose. “Not tonight.”

“Very well,” Aerin sighed in defeat, releasing her so she could get to her feet.

“Don’t forget,” Iliana added as she stooped, plucking her clothes off the ground, “you’re meeting with your mother in the morning before the lords arrive.”

Aerin huffed, watching as Iliana pulled on her smallclothes and trousers, although he made no move to help. Another tactic to delay her inevitable departure. When he spoke, his voice was as dry as cracked earth. “How could I ever forget?”

Iliana twisted her lips sympathetically, sliding her tunic over her head. She turned, pulling her hair out of her collar and eyed Aerin. “I was going to return to the Temple of Light and sweep the area for any clues about the attack before I write up my report for Ristridin, but if you want, I can sit in on your meetings. I’m sure none of the other guards would mind taking a shift off.”

“No, that’s… that’s alright,” Aerin said wearily, rubbing at his eyes. “You do what you need to do. I can handle my mother.  _ And _ the lords.”

“With ease,” Iliana quipped in support, shoving her feet into her boots before she began to strap on her armor. She was off duty for the night, but it was better to wear it out than carry it all. And she could not exactly leave it here in Aerin’s quarters for the staff to find.

“With tact,” Aerin corrected. “I don’t know about ease, although I will certainly try.”

“I’m sure you will be just fine,” Iliana told him, buckling on the last of her greaves. She crossed over to him on light feet, her armor barely making a sound as she ducked down and kissed his forehead. “Get some sleep.”

Aerin arched a brow. “Only if you do the same.”

“Of course I will,” she replied, swiping her cloak off of the poster of his bed and clasping it around her neck. “After I get out of here, I’m going straight to bed.”

Aerin’s lip curled. “You are a horrible liar.”

Iliana laughed, backing toward the balcony doors. “We can’t all be as good as you.”

Aerin stiffened as he always did whenever he noticed which way she chose to make her exit. “You could just leave out the hallway,” he remarked cautioningly. “Or through one of Anneith’s passages.”

“Wouldn’t want to run into anyone in the halls,” Iliana explained, shrugging one shoulder as she flexed her fingers, running the pad of her thumb over the callouses. “Besides, I like getting the fresh air.”

Aerin reached out over the foot of the bed, grabbing her hand. “Just…” His eyes searched her face, lips drawn into a worried frown. “Be safe. Don’t come back with any more scars.”

Iliana bit back her teasing reply, opting for sincerity. She lifted Aerin’s hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles, smiling slightly when the shells of his ears reddened. “I will try my best.”

Aerin sighed, exasperated, although there was no mistaking the content curve of his lips. “I suppose that is the best I can expect from you. You’re practically a magnet for trouble.”

Iliana rolled her eyes. “I will see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Aerin agreed, but before Iliana could pull away, he curled his fingers into the front of her breastplate and pulled her down into a sweet, lingering kiss that made Iliana’s insides melt. 

Aerin pulled away first, which Iliana considered to be a small mercy, for she did not think she had the strength to do it herself. Iliana gazed at him through her lashes, slightly dazed and cheeks flushed pink as she witnessed the intensity of the emotion Aerin harbored on his face. Around everyone else, Aerin was unnervingly skilled at hiding his expressions, so Iliana could not help but feel breathless over what he allowed her to see.

She felt the words then, on the tip of her tongue, just as she always did every time they parted, ever since that first time.

_ I love you,  _ Aerin had confessed nearly two months ago, just before he delved into the palace to save his father, the two of them going separate ways to meet their fate.

Iliana opened her mouth, gathering the courage to speak those three little words. But then, just as she also always did, Iliana refrained at the last moment, remembering one small truth, the reason why she had to sneak out of Aerin’s quarters every time.

He could never be hers.

No matter what she felt—no matter what  _ he  _ felt—none of that changed the fact that Aerin was now king, and an orphaned elf would never have a rightful place beside him.

_ This cannot last, _ Iliana cautioned herself, despite her own heart’s protests.

Iliana pulled back, her heart heavy in her chest. She wanted so badly to stay, to cling to this while she still could, but that was just another reason why it was imperative she leave.

“Goodnight, Aerin,” she bid him softly, hating the resignation that flashed in his eyes.

He nodded, uncurling his fingers from her breastplate and brushing the back of his knuckles against her skin one last time before leaning back. “Sleep well.”

It felt like a test of will to not drag her feet as Iliana turned away and strode for the balcony doors, leaving them open behind her because she knew Aerin liked having the autumnal breeze sweep through his room. It was part of the reason why all of his papers constantly had to be pinned down.

Iliana nimbly hauled herself over the balcony edge, grabbing hold of the sturdy vines that crept up the palace’s exterior walls. By now, Iliana knew the path down to her bedroom window by heart, which hand- and foot-holds were the most stable and would get her to her chambers the quickest. But tonight, Iliana did not want to go back to her rooms. Not yet.

Instead, she climbed up, pulling herself hand over hand until she reached the parapets of an outdoor bridge that led from the main part of the Northern Wing to the circular tower that served as the palace rookery, where Anneith’s ravens and other messenger birds were located. As it was, the rookery was also where a certain Old God liked to slumber.

Iliana cleared the balustrade and strode down the bridge to the rookery, which was, as she expected, empty. She climbed the staircase that spiraled around the rotunda all the way to the upper platform, passing the large hanging cages that housed carrier pigeons and the occasional owl as she went. Only Anneith’s ravens lived outside of the cages. Those birds had an uncanny way of behaving that made Iliana suspect that those crows were more intelligent than most people believe. Perhaps that was why the spymaster loved them so much.

When Iliana at last reached the upper platform of the rookery, she shouldered open the wooden door that led out to the wide walkway that surrounded the top of the tower, which was mostly occupied by a large, leathery body.

At the sound of the door swinging shut behind Iliana, the great creature stirred, lifting its massive head. Slitted eyes of amethyst peered out of the shadows and a warm wind stirred Iliana’s hair as the beast huffed.

_ Hello, little one,  _ the Old God with many names said into her mind. The Sky Dragon of myth, Vaelor of the Shared Pantheon. Death on wings, Iliana learned to call him Mor.

She nudged the toe of her boot against his massive, taloned fingers as she dragged something out of the shadows. Small bits of metal glinted in the moonlight, clinking against the stone floor.

“Come on, you lazy old beast,” she said with a wild grin, hefting up the saddle. “Let’s go for a ride.”


	3. The Outsiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Undermount, Tyril's plans to obtain aid from the elves are thrown into chaos when outsiders arrive in the hidden city.

Tyril Starfury sat with his chin cupped in his hand, elbow propped up on the arm of his chair, as he gazed at the center of the symposium, where two elves, a woman from House Fortellane and a man from House Sunstrider, debated which dynasty, the Skywarren or the Stonewald, contributed the most to elven art. 

Adrina sat on his left, her pale hair falling over her shoulders like the first gentle snow of winter. The amusement in her expression, Tyril knew, was more for appearances than it was genuine. Adrina loved Undermount and their people just as much as Tyril did, but the expression she wore now could not even begin to compare to the light that filled her eyes when he told her of the world beyond Undermount, beyond Morella. The Frostwhisper Mountains of Vishanti, the poison fields, Rysoth… She had so many questions and Tyril was incredibly grateful that Nia was there to help answer them. 

But stories could hardly even begin to capture the wonder of reality. Tyril found himself hoping that next time he left the mountain city, Adrina—and the rest of their people—would come with them. 

Their father, Valir, sat on her other side, tapping his chin thoughtfully as he listened to the debate with rapt attention. Tyril wished he was even half as engrossed as his father.

Nia sat on Tyril’s right side, her priestess’ robes swapped out for a silken lavender dress that was embroidered with silver thread and rippled like a windswept field of purple peonies when she moved. To her credit, Nia tried her best to look fascinated, her hands folded politely in her lap, and her posture attentive, but Tyril could tell by the way she frequently shifted about and her eyes fluttered wide every so often that she was doing everything she could to stay awake.

It was not the worst debate Tyril had ever attended but it certainly wasn’t the most thought-provoking or insightful either. In fact, that was how Tyril felt about many things in Undermount lately. Once, he had delighted in debating or listening to other elves as they argued about all sorts of topics, from philosophy to art, and had very much enjoyed all that Undermount had to offer outside of its byzantine political structure. 

But now, Tyril could not indulge in any of these things without thinking of everything in the outside world that his people were missing out on. It made him restless. How could he possibly stay here, hiding behind these gilded walls while his friends were spread across the kingdom, dealing with murders and schemes? How could he participate in discussions about ancient art and literature or look forward to the next decadent banquet when with every second that passed, the Empire developed its plans for Morella’s demise?

Nia nudged his arm with her elbow, drawing Tyril out of his thoughts. 

“Who do you think is right?” Nia whispered, nodding her chin toward the center of the forum.

Tyril shook his head, leaning over the arm of his chair in her direction. “Topics related to art or philosophy are always subjective,” he explained patiently, waving a hand at the podium. “The point of most of these debates is not to determine right or wrong but to stimulate the mind and bring attention to topics in order to ensure they are not forgotten.”

“Oh,” Nia replied, nodding slowly. Her brow furrowed. “Of course. That makes… sense.”

Tyril laughed under his breath, understanding that to those raised outside of Undermount, it certainly did not.

“But, to answer your question…” he added with a private smile. “Neither. Anyone with a true appreciation of the arts or even a sense of taste knows that the most exquisite pieces of art were made during the  _ Greenbriar  _ Dynasty. It is hardly a debate. The artistry of the Skywarren and other eras cannot even begin to compare.”

Nia’s brows lifted, her lips pursing. “I thought you just said art was subjective and there is no right or wrong?” 

Tyril waved his hand dismissively. “Officially, yes. But we all have our own opinions.”

“Hm,” Nia hummed thoughtfully, redirecting her attention to the two debaters and the pieces of art displayed behind them. She pointed toward the center of the conclave. “That one… It is from the Skywarren Dynasty, right?”

Tyril followed her fingertip to a woven tapestry that was on display between two canvases. It was a swirling conglomeration of black and gold thread that spiraled out toward the edges of the tapestry, like a maelstrom of sunlight and shadow. At the eye of the storm was a dark, winged warrior, clutching a spiked club.

Tyril frowned at it, an uneasy feeling settling deep into the pit of his stomach. He glanced at Nia, who was staring hard at the tapestry, her expression betraying both her discomfort and a sense of befuddled familiarity. 

“Yes,” he replied slowly, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing attention away from the debaters. “I believe it was produced not long before Valen fell. See its burnt edges? It was recovered from the Golden City before it could be consumed by flames and has been preserved with magic ever since.”

Nia frowned and wrapped her arms around herself, shuddering slightly. She shook her head, tearing her gaze away from the tapestry at last. “I don’t like it.”

Tyril opened his mouth to question why, but found that he sympathized with her sentiments. “Admittedly, neither do I,” Tyril confessed, pursing his lips. “There’s something unnerving about it.”

“If the elves lived in peace and prosperity,” Nia wondered softly, “how could something so…”

“Foreboding?” Tyril offered.

“Disturbing.” Nia grimaced. “How could something so dark be produced in a civilization that survived in the Light?”

Tyril let out a low hum, lips turning down into a frown. “The darkness will always be there, Nia. No matter how prosperous a city is, every alleyway has its shadows. But…” 

As he spoke, Tyril’s gaze roamed about the rotunda, idly skimming over the faces of the other elves that had attended the debate this morning, noting those who were fully engrossed in the art discussion, those who looked uninterested but remained out of respect and decorum, and those, few in number, who were more interested in Tyril’s human guest than anything else in the room. 

Most of the elves that gazed at Nia—a woman from House Rainwallow, two men from House Stonewater, and another woman from House Sandblossom—did so with equal parts curiosity and wariness. But there was one man whose expression conveyed neither of these feelings as he glared at Nia with what could only be described as poorly disguised contempt. Tyril recognized the white-haired man as Valerian, heir to the very same House that yielded Duke Erthax, or as the people of Valen once knew him, Bastion Steelsorrow.

Tyril narrowed his eyes at the Steelsorrow heir, glaring with a coldness so severe, it rivaled that which laid in the darkness between distant stars. Beside him, Tyril felt Adrina stiffen as if she had noticed the same thing he had. He did not doubt that she now bore a similar expression to his own.

Valerian’s rosy gaze met Tyril’s, furrowed brows creasing his midnight blue skin as his lip curled with distaste. Then, without so much as a lingering glance, the other elf lord looked away. Tyril stared at him for a few moments longer, then did the same while making a mental note to keep Nia away from Valerian and learn which Houses were particularly close to the Steelsorrow line. Perhaps if he acted quickly and Nia utilized her natural charm, they could be swayed before the Steelsorrow heir poisoned their thoughts.

Tyril returned his attention to his conversation with Nia, leaving the issue of the Steelsorrows and Nia’s reputation amongst the elves for when he returned to the manor and could consult his notes. He rapped his fingertips against the arm of his chair and looked at the tapestry with a pensive expression. 

“It makes me wonder about the elves at the time…” he said slowly, feeling Nia’s gaze weigh heavily on his profile. “If they knew something terrible was about to come, that they were on the precipice of a darkness from which they could not return.”

“Well, the same could be said of us,” Nia mused, cupping her chin in one hand as she fluttered the fingers of the other. “Two years ago, could you have ever imagined that we would be here like this now? That everything that happened could have… happened?”

Tyril thought that over for a few moments. Gods, he could not even comprehend how simple life had been two years ago. Or perhaps  _ simple _ was not the correct word. His life at the center of elven politics and scheming had never been  _ simple. _ But it had been familiar. And for the most part, predictable. When his best friend had left… 

It did not matter that months had passed before Duchess Xenia had returned in Kaya Duskraven’s skin and shamed him in a duel. In retrospect, Tyril knew that the day his best friend had left Undermount in search of long forgotten knowledge was also the day that life as he knew it ceased to exist. From that point on, nothing had been the same, and now, it never could be again. 

Although perhaps that was for the best.

Two years ago, Tyril had spent his days aiding his father in managing the Starfury manor and their various political and economic endeavors, as was customary of House heirs. And when he was not aiding Valir or spending time with Kaya, Tyril spent his time brushing up on his lessons on politics, ancient elvish, magic, dueling, poetry, history, and pretty much any other topic he could find information on in the Grand Library. 

It was all very… 

Words such as  _ familiar, comforting,  _ and _ predictable,  _ swirled through Tyril’s mind, but looking back on the memories and all of the time he spent alone, Tyril could only describe it as  _ monotonous. _

He did not know it then, but it seemed that even he had been in desperate need of change. 

“I will admit that even in my wildest wonderings, I could never have dreamt that our lives would be as they are now,” Tyril said slowly, carefully picking his words as he tried to work through his thoughts. “But I think I’d always known that things could not stay as they were forever. And they still cannot,” he added firmly. “We cannot afford to stand still.”

Nia nodded in agreement, although her gaze became a little sharper on his face. Searching—for his answers, and perhaps her own. She affirmed, “Change is good, right?”

“And often necessary,” Tyril replied, sinking into his chair with a weary sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “But that does not make it any easier.”

Nia’s expression softened into one of understanding and commiseration. She opened her mouth, about to respond when—

All conversation, including that of the House Fortellane and House Sunstrider’s debate, drew to a sudden halt as the doors to the rotunda burst open, emitting a single elf. All eyes shifted in the elf’s direction, noting her wide pink eyes and disgruntled appearance.

“Trespassers!” she panted, winded from both exertion and shock, and clinging to the open doors. “At the eastern gates!”

“The eastern gates?” Adrina murmured beside him in skeptical disbelief. “Through the tunnels? That must mean—”

“Yes,” Valir replied gravely. “They came from the other side of the mountains.”

Nia leaned forward, her brow creasing. “What’s on the other side of the mountains?”

Tyril pressed his lips into a grim line as his memory dredged up a few ancient paintings featured in the Grand Library. He saw it clearly in his mind, an oil rendering of red sand dunes, crumbling pillars, and rippling waves of heat that simmered beneath an unforgiving sun… 

“The wastelands,” Tyril replied, a sinking feeling settling into his gut. “Zaradun.”

“Trespassers?” Valerian snapped from the other side of the forum, his rich voice drawn into a careless but irritated drawl. “What kind?”

The elf drew in a deep breath, her golden hair stirring in the benign wind that swept through the doorway around her. “Dwarves.”

* * *

Tyril raced toward the eastern entrance of Undermount, Nia and Adrina not far behind.

It was so rare that the inhabitants of the ancient city were interested in any affairs that were not their own, but now, it seemed that all of the elves had heard the news about their dwarven trespassers and were now mingling in the narrow streets, chattering amongst themselves. Tyril could practically feel their agitation and wariness tingle on his skin.

Tyril wove through the narrow streets, the cool shadows of the jagged mountains sliding over him as he delved deeper into the city, avoiding the main thoroughfare. He crossed into an older part of the city, the stone streets worn not by use but age. Some of the glittering stones that were embedded in the ground or the surrounding rock walls were cracked or missing entirely. It was no secret that the  _ zelandani _ —magicless elves—often took whatever precious gemstones or priceless artifacts they could get their hands on to fund their lives after exile.

“I don’t understand,” Nia said breathlessly as she followed Tyril throughout the ancient streets. “What’s the big deal about dwarves in Undermount?”

“What’s the big deal about dwarves?” Adrina echoed incredulously. “Nia—”

“Dwarves are notorious recluses,” Tyril muttered. “Even more so than our own people. There has not been a dwarf in Undermount since our ancestors first fled from Valen.”

“They like to sit in those old ruins with their secrets and treasure. Only Annalis knows what kind of treasure they’re hiding that’s  _ so  _ important they won’t leave the wastelands,” Adrina added. “That’s why they didn’t lift a finger to help us during the Great War.”

Tyril heard the note of confusion in Nia’s voice. “But Borte—”

Nia’s question was cut short by a horrible, bloodcurdling screech that made Tyril’s head throb and a loud  _ BOOM!  _ that shook the earth, nearly throwing the three of them off their feet.

“Stars above!” Adrina gasped, catching herself on the side of a building. “What was that?”

“I have no idea,” Tyril admitted darkly, shoving himself away from the wall he had stumbled against. He shook his head, clearing his ears of an incessant ringing. “But we’re about to find out.” 

He led them through another alleyway and they ran down a few more blocks before finally reaching the Eastern Gates. The sight that greeted them made Tyril stop cold in his tracks, his boots scraping against the stone as his heart seized in his chest. 

“Mother of Grey…”

Dozens of elves were stationed around Undermount’s eastern entrance, which was more or less a large tunnel that burrowed deep into the surrounding mountains. On the other side of the gate, Tyril saw the party of eight battered dwarves that had already become infamous in the hidden city, clustered against the gilded gates.

Tyril could not even process what the presence of these dwarves meant, nor could he take the time to consider why exactly none of the elves around him moved to open the gates, for all of his attention was directed to the wall of Shadow that crested within the tunnel, poised to crash over their so-called trespassers. 

The only thing that held the dark magic at bay, Tyril realized, was a shimmering veil—a magical shield. Tyril knew instantly that the protective magic did not belong to his people, but to the dwarves.

That chilling screech pierced the air again, causing Tyril to grimace and clap his hands over his sensitive ears, that awful sound rattling around his skull. When his ears finally stopped ringing, he realized that the wretched cry came from the Shadows.

At first Tyril thought that it was only the impenetrable darkness that terrorized the dwarven people, but then he saw the creatures that moved  _ within _ the dark.

There were about a dozen Shadow spiders near the mouth of the tunnel, each one at least ten feet tall. Their black bodies were hard, the pale light of the early afternoon sun gleaming on their oily, armor-like exoskeletons, and big beady eyes. They hurled themselves against the magical barrier, each impact rumbling through the earth.

“We have to help them!” Nia cried, pressing forward before Tyril could stop her. She waved her arms at the elven guards, palms starting to glow silver. “Open the gates!”

Nobody moved to follow.

Nia faltered, gazing around at the assembled elves in confusion as Tyril raced after her. “Why are you all just standing there?” she demanded, as the elves stood there, uncertain. She shook her head, storming toward the armored guard that stood beside the mechanism that lifted the metal gate. “Open the gates! We must do something—”

Tyril grabbed her arm, tugging her back as he lowered his mouth to her ear. “They are  _ outsiders,  _ Nia,” he cautioned, fingers tightening around her upper arm as he tried to pull her away from the gates, away from danger.

Nia whirled on him then, her face twisted with a fury that was unlike any he had ever seen on her face before. She snapped, “So?”

“So no one is going to help them,” he replied flatly, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing attention from the other elves. He tugged again on Nia’s arm, hoping to pull her away from this mess, but she would not budge. “They are strangers.”

“Are you listening to yourself, Tyril Starfury?” Nia hissed, yanking her arm out of his grasp. She was absolutely livid in a way Tyril had not thought possible of the mild-mannered priestess. “They are  _ people. _ ”

“People we cannot trust,” a cold voice retorted tersely. “People who have brought danger and darkness to our doorstep.”

Tyril turned, his face drawing into a grimace as he saw Valerian striding toward them, face harsh and indifferent.

“People who are  _ clearly  _ looking for sanctuary,” Nia snapped, waving her hand toward the dwarves huddled against the gates. “Will you not provide it? They have brought you no harm!”

“Haven’t they?” Valerian said coldly, tilting up his chin. “They led those beasts here. We do not have to risk our lives cleaning up their mess.” He turned to address the nearby elves. “You may arm them, but I say let them deal with it on their own.”

“You think that gate will stop those monsters?” Nia questioned, resting her hands firmly on her hips. “No. Once those dwarves fall, the Shadow spiders will be  _ our  _ problem, and those people will have died for nothing but for your own fear.”

Valerian scowled, leaning toward her. “You insolent—”

“Watch your tongue, Steelsorrow, or I will watch it for you,” Adrina threatened as she stepped forward and put her hand on Nia’s shoulder, pulling a delicate but undeniably deadly dagger from beneath her robes, drawing the eyes of nearby elves.

Valerian turned to her, sneering. “Adrina Starfury,” he drawled. “I certainly hope you are not waving that blade at me.”

_ Midys have mercy _ —This was not good. If Adrina was getting involved, the Head of House Starfury… Things could go very badly, very quickly, and if they weren’t careful, it would be not only Nia’s position in Undermount that was in jeopardy, but his House’s standing.

Tyril ground his teeth. He needed to make a decision, before the elves turned against Nia or a feud broke out between Houses Starfury and Steelsorrow.

His gaze flicked once more to the dwarves, their screams and pleas for aid reaching a new level of terror as their magical shield continued to take blow after blow. The barrier shimmered and sparked, strain evident in the dwarf that cast the protective spell. Tyril knew the shield would not hold for much longer, and despite his better judgment, he could not bear to see it fall.

It would be so much easier to turn away, to hand off a sword to the dwarves and let this problem be theirs alone. It would make his task of winning allies much easier as well. But… 

But what kind of person would he be if he walked away now? One he would not be proud of, that was for sure. One Kaya would not have been proud of, either. 

Tyril eyed the dwarves on the other side of the gate, their small and stout bodies wracked with fear and exhaustion. His chest tightened at the sight, fingers curling into his palms. If turning away now would win his people’s approval, then perhaps he did not want it.

It was then that Tyril decided if he was going to pick a hill to die on, this might as well have been it. 

“Open the gates!” he demanded, turning away from Nia and Valerian. “Now!”

Nia’s eyes widened, hope and gratitude shining clear on her face. “Tyril—”

Valerian’s face twisted into a menacing snarl as he growled,  _ “Starfury _ —”

Tyril ignored him, facing the elven guards. “Do it!”

The guards hesitated, unsure, then—

“As head of House Starfury, the House Ascendant,” Adrina snapped, her back straight and voice authoritative, “I am ordering you to  _ open those gates!”  _

This time, the guards obeyed, scrambling toward the mechanism that operated the gates. One pulled on a lever, inducing a wretched, metallic groan as a cluster of chains snaked around an ancient pulley system, and the golden gates began to slowly rise.  _ Too _ slowly.

Gods, when was the last time these gates had been opened? Perhaps when the Priestess of Light led the elven refugees from the fallen city of Valen during the Great War.

Nia rushed forward, reaching her hand beneath the gradually rising gate to usher the dwarves through. “Quickly now!”

The dwarves filed beneath the gate, one after the other until only the one who had cast the shield remained, locked into place as they directed all of their concentration and strength into powering the spell. 

Another terrible  _ BOOM! _ shook the earth as a spider crashed into the shield, sparks flying off the barrier as it buckled, wavered, and tenuously held. But Tyril knew with utmost certainty that the dwarf had to drop the shield and run, or the Shadow spiders would break it first.

Misfortune favored the latter.

The next time one of the great spiders hurled itself against the barrier, it shattered, dissolving into a spray of sparkling particles that were soon swallowed by the wave of Shadow.

“No!” Nia yelled, the sound full of horror. She lunged forward and snatched the last dwarf by the back of their tunic, hauling them beneath the gate as the spiders descended.

“Nia!” Adrina yelled at the same time Tyril ordered, “Close the gates!”

The guards reacted immediately, but the ancient mechanisms that controlled the gate were still too slow. Tyril ran forward, pulling a sword from the scabbard of one of the guards as he went. He swung the stolen blade into the old, brittle chains, just as the first spiders breached the entrance. The links shattered on impact, tiny fragments of rusted metal flying everywhere as the gates screeched and shuddered, plummeting down.

The gate fell atop the body of one of the massive spiders, pinning it to the ground as it let out a horrid screech. But as it was, the creature’s hard exoskeleton did not break beneath the weight, its body propping the gate open just enough for a few more of its kin to squeeze through, shrouded in Shadow.

Tyril sprinted forward to guard Nia and the dwarves’ retreat, but he could not close the distance between them fast enough. One of the spiders scuttled after Nia, its sharp mandibles clipping the back of her leg. She cried out as she tumbled to the ground, using the last bit of momentum she had to shove the dwarves in front of her, guiding them away from the dark creatures.

“No!” Tyril yelled as Nia turned on her back, lifting her glowing hands as she faced the terrible beast that bore down on her.

_ CRACK! _

A brilliant flash illuminated the clearing, causing Tyril to falter in his steps and throw up his hands to ward against the blinding light. When it faded, he hastily blinked away the spots that danced in his eyes and staggered forward to help Nia in whatever way he could.

But he no longer had to.

Nia still laid on the ground, but as far as Tyril could tell, she was perfectly whole and hale. The smoking husk of the dead spider sat at her feet and Valerian stood behind her, his arms raised defensively, midnight blue skin still glowing faintly with the Light.

The Steelsorrow heir snarled something in ancient elvish and then brought his hand down across his body in a slashing motion. Another brilliant arc of Light sliced through the air, severing the other spiders that had squeezed through the gate into two, beating back their Shadows. The spiders on the other side of the gate slowed in their advance, chittering uneasily as if in hesitation.

“Leave this place!” Valerian hissed, raising his arm as if to strike again, but Tyril beat him to it, hurling a ball of flame at the body that propped open the gates. The magical fire tore through the spider’s carapace as it squealed, reducing it to nothing more than a charred husk as the gate slid back into place.

A burst of Light lit up the mouth of the cave, this time by Nia’s doing. The remaining spiders shrieked, skittering back into the depths of the mountain and taking the Shadow with them.

Tyril exhaled heavily, combing his fingers through his hair as he stared into the empty darkness of the cave and tried to process everything that had just happened. He heard something shift behind them, the metallic clink of armor, and turned to see the guard—Janos Rainwallow, he realized—beside him. Tyril handed back his sword with a nod of wordless gratitude.

“Well, that takes care of that,” Valerian declared when the sounds of the retreating spiders faded into nothingness. He looked down at Nia and huffed disdainfully.  _ “You’re _ still alive.”

Nia pushed herself to her feet, her eyes wide. “You helped me. I—”

He sneered, shaking his head. “Do not thank me. Letting you die would only cause more trouble.” Then Valerian turned, his youthful face a mask of disdain. “Now all that is left is  _ them.” _

He pointed at the cluster of dwarves that now stood together in the shade of a nearby building, looking cautiously at the surrounding elves. Tyril could practically sense the unease that wicked off of them.

“Please!” one of them—a woman with a flaxen braid and coal-black eyes—exclaimed, throwing up her hands when Valerian took a menacing step forward. “We come seeking refuge!”

“From the spiders?” Nia asked but the dwarven woman hastily shook her head.

“No! Well, yes, but they only began to hunt us last night. Please,” she begged, clasping her hands together. “We did not mean to bring you any danger. We are fleeing Zaradun. Crossing the mountains was the quickest way out of the Red Desert.”

“Fleeing Zaradun?” Tyril echoed, perplexed. “But why?”

“The kingdom has been sacked,” another dwarf replied, a man with a bushy, red beard and bald head.

Tyril felt Nia’s gaze snap to him, insistent. Instantly, his stomach twisted and his blood ran cold with dread. He swallowed past the sudden dryness in his throat as he asked, “Sacked by who?”

Tyril had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“The Empire of Ash,” the first dwarven woman replied and Tyril closed his eyes, pressing his lips into a grim line.  _ Damn it. _

How? How had this happened? How was the Empire already here? And how had nobody noticed?

Tyril blew out a long and measured breath as he opened his eyes and said wearily, “We cannot send them back there.”

Valerian’s attention whipped to him. “Well, they cannot stay  _ here.” _

“They’ve nowhere else to go,” Nia protested, crossing to stand defensively before the dwarves. “As of this moment, I am placing them under my protection,” she declared firmly and Tyril wanted to caution her before she dug them into an even bigger hole than the one they were already in. But if he was being frank with himself, he did not  _ want _ to contradict Nia. Not on this matter.

“As a Priestess of Light,” Nia continued and Tyril noted she left out the word  _ former _ , “I invoke the right to grant them sanctuary.”

Valerian’s eyes narrowed, cheeks darkening with a furious blush. “You forget that you are a  _ guest _ here, priestess.”

_ “My _ guest,” Tyril snapped, stepping forward. “And if these people are under her protection, then they are under mine as well.”

“And that of House Starfury,” Adrina added, reaching out to gently lay her hand between Nia’s shoulder blades.

Valerian’s lips twisted into an even harsher grimace as he regarded them, his eyes flicking from Tyril, to Adrina, and finally to Nia. Then he exhaled sharply.

“Fine, but understand this,” he said coldly, pointing a finger at Tyril. “Any harm that comes to my people at their expense will be on your head. Let all who are here bear witness to the risk you are taking with their safety.”

_ “‘Your people?’” _ Tyril retorted, brows lowering. “They are mine, too.”

“Are they?” the Steelsorrow heir questioned flatly as he gave Tyril a look of scrutiny. He shook his head and turned on his heel to stalk away. “You certainly do not act like it.”

Tyril winced, his fingers curling into fists. Normally, he would have been unaffected by such a callous comment—he had heard many things like that in the time that he had been shamed and exiled. But this time, the insult stung, and perhaps that was because now, the words held true.

Tyril shook his head, banishing the thoughts from his mind. He had more important things to worry about. He turned around, facing the dwarves. Like _ them. _

He still could not believe it. The dwarven kingdom of Zaradun, sacked by the Empire of Ash… He had to send word to Whitetower. Immediately. But first… 

Tyril turned to Adrina, Head of their house. “What should we do with them?”

Adrina sighed wearily, rubbing her temples as she regarded the dwarven refugees. They looked exhausted and bedraggled, clothes torn and dirty, stained with the dust of the Red Desert of Zaradun.

“I’m going to take them to the healers compound,” Adrina said at last, folding her hands behind her back. “You tell the house butler to have rooms prepared for our guests.”

Tyril nodded. He could do that. He had to return to the manor to draft up a letter to the King, and to sift through his own stack of mail, anyhow.

“Then, after a short rest… we should all have a talk,” Adrina added with an air of dread Tyril felt in his bones. “About what comes next.”

Tyril’s lips twisted.  _ Indeed. _

Not even an hour ago, Nia had asked him if two years ago, he had known his life was about to drastically change. Then, he hadn’t had a clue. But now, after bearing witness to several momentous events, Tyril was beginning to develop a sense for identifying when the tides of fate had suddenly shifted. 

Now, Tyril had a sinking feeling that after today, nothing would ever be the same. 


	4. A Most Dangerous Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aerin meets with his mother and the Lords of Whitetower to discuss the war effort while Iliana and Kade go searching for clues about the mysterious attacks.

Aerin Valleros strode through the rose garden, the early morning breeze sliding through his curls like gentle fingers beneath his heavy crown. Dew and hints of frost clung to the serrated leaves of the manicured rose bushes, which were well-tended and enchanted to bloom year-round. The mornings were growing colder and the sun was rising later as the last, lingering dregs of summer faded away into the heart of autumn. 

It was strange, Aerin mused, the passage of time. These last few months felt as if they had crawled by at a snail’s pace, but also as if they had zipped by at record speed. He could not fathom how it was possible that only two months ago, he was held prisoner in the depths of the Khagan’s fortress, hidden in the snow-blasted peaks of the Frostwhisper Mountains of Vishanti. Then, he had been a prince with no crown, hands still stained with his brother’s blood, and haunted by the ghost of his mother.

But now… Now he was the King, with hands that were no less bloody, and he walked with the Queen Mother on his arm.

In another two months, they would be deep into the dead of winter, and it would not be a thin layer of frost that coated the gardens, but snow. Aerin could only speculate how much would change before then. Would his life even be recognizable? Would his kingdom?

Aerin’s mother, Rhiannon, walked beside him with her arm hooked beneath his, her fine-boned hand laid atop his forearm, and a dark veil concealing her face. She was dressed in the rich reds and golds of House Valleros, the perfect complement to Aerin’s midnight blue and silver tunic, which, ironically, were the colors of _her_ family, House Archeron. 

While Baldur had taken after his father in looks, there was no doubt Aerin was his mother’s son. They had the same high cheekbones, straight nose—although Aerin’s now had a faint ridge from all the times it had been broken—and full lips. And thus, the veil that hid her royal visage. had been added to the Dowager Queen’s wardrobe. Without it, there was no way to pass her off as Lady Anielle, a royal advisor whose face was said to have been horribly burned in the explosions that took out the upper half of the palace. As far as the rest of the kingdom was concerned, Rhiannon Valleros was long gone.

Every time he, Captain Ristridin, or Rhiannon herself decided that the King was in need of her counsel, Aerin was faced with the small dilemma of deciding where they should meet. His quarters or his study offered sanctuary from prying eyes, but being alone with his estranged mother in such a small space left Aerin with a creeping feeling of vulnerability, as if allowing her into his quarters allowed her to know more about him than he would ever know about her. Because truthfully, all Aerin had ever known of his mother was nothing.

Aerin thought he had made peace with his mother’s disappearance. After all, he had taken part in orchestrating it. But if that was truly the case, then why did he feel so damned angry whenever she was around? So bitter?

Aerin did not have the answers he sought nor did he have the time to sort out and analyze his own feelings. So he preferred to meet with his mother in the gardens, trailed by attendants and members of the royal guard, even if the veil Rhiannon had to wear in public made him feel like he was part of a funeral procession. Like he was speaking with a ghost. 

If he could, Aerin would simply avoid the meetings altogether, but he could not deny that his mother’s advice about navigating the court was invaluable. 

His memory held true. No one was as skilled at courtly intrigue as Rhiannon, even if she _was_ an outsider.

_The Halfling Queen._

Aerin had so many questions. About his mother, about their heritage, about where she had been all of these years… But unsurprisingly, Rhiannon had been less than forthcoming with her secrets. All Aerin could get out of her was that yes—she was, in fact, a human descendant of wooly halflings, and yes, that meant he was as well, but no—she was not a true Archeron, at least not by blood. Any questions beyond that, Rhiannon had simply said, _Another time, Aerin. We have more important issues to worry about._

Ah, yes. More important issues, like convincing the Lords of Whitetower to go to war. 

“We should be producing supplies, building weapons, and training our soldiers,” Aerin muttered as he and his mother meandered through the hedges beneath the cloudy sky. “Not wasting time convincing the men in charge that this war is real.”

“They say the battle begins long before the troops are even sent to the fields,” his mother mused, her long and graceful steps in sync with his. Even her voice was just as he remembered it—low, rich, and wise, with regalness he could only hope to emulate.

“Half of them don’t even believe the Empire is an imminent threat,” Aerin huffed, irritated. He reached out, plucked a leaf off of a nearby bush, and pressed the pad of his thumb into its frost-covered surface, feeling the small crystals of ice melt against his skin. “They are comforted by the victory at Cragheart and forget how close we were to defeat. And that was just a _test._ If Iliana hadn’t—”

Aerin cut himself off, his fingers curling around the leaf in his palm as he recalled the crater of destruction she had left on that battlefield. He’d visited Cragheart the day after the battle, once all the pyres had been constructed but before the mass funeral had been held, and was astonished by the ruin Iliana’s magic had left behind. He did not know precisely what the hells had happened to Iliana that day on the fields, only that it had left her changed. Well, he supposed none of his companions were the same people anymore.

“If it hadn’t been for them,” Aerin said vaguely, not trusting himself to speak of his friends without revealing some vulnerable part of himself, “we would have lost that battle.” He shook his head, fuming. “Have they already forgotten how many dead men filled the pyres?”

“I’d wager that they have not,” the Queen Mother replied from beneath her veil, and without looking, Aerin knew her gaze was boring into him. “But this is what happens when men are born into power but given no purpose. They’ve grown complacent, accustomed to peace. These lords grew up on stories of the fiefdom wars, of squashed rebellions. But they do not know how to get their own hands dirty. They would rather ignore the threat and hope it goes away on its own.”

“It won’t go away,” Aerin insisted, although he knew he needn’t try to convince his mother. “Why can’t they see that?”

Through the veil, his mother gave him a pitying look. He despised it.

“They do not want to,” she informed him, gently. Too gently. Aerin found himself wishing she would just be stern with him, like his old tutors were. Not like… not like she was still trying to be his mother. “They are scared, Aerin, and unlike you, they have never confronted the things they fear.”

“So they would let people die instead?” he retorted, his voice sharpening in response to her gentleness.

“Success belongs to everyone involved,” Rhiannon replied sagely, her tone cool and unruffled by Aerin’s bitterness. “But failure rests solely on those in charge.”

“They would let the fault be mine,” Aerin said dryly. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“They do not know you yet, Aerin,” she reminded him, and Aerin bit back the urge to snap, _Neither do you._

But he ground his teeth, reining in the words before he could come to regret them.

“It remains to be seen what kind of king you will be,” Rhiannon continued slowly, lowering her voice so that only he could hear her. “That is the case for all new rulers, not just those with your… past. They know not whether you will be a tyrant or a fool, someone who threatens what they have or someone they may take advantage of. Today, you must show them that you are neither.”

“If Father had been in charge—” Aerin’s breath hitched ever so slightly, and he disguised the hoarseness in his voice with a cough. “If Father had been in charge, they would have listened,” he said morosely. “Just as they had when he sent the standing army to Cragheart.”

“I would not be so sure,” the Queen murmured, shaking her head. “The Battle of Ash is an isolated incident, and the order to fight was a decree given in a state of emergency. Had the lords been given time, they would have fought your father until he gave them what they wanted.”

Aerin bristled, his lips thinning with displeasure as he echoed, “What they wanted?”

“The key to convincing them the war is worth their attention is learning what they desire. All men want for something,” she explained, thoughtfully drumming her fingers against his forearm. “If duty is not enough to spur them into action, perhaps a deal might.”

Aerin frowned, nose wrinkling. “We cannot afford to waste resources that should be dedicated to the war effort on convincing a bunch of lords to defend their own people.”

“We won’t have to,” Rhiannon stated confidently and Aerin glanced over at her with a single brow arched. “Some lords are more important to this cause than others,” she informed him. “Strike the tower at its base and the rest of the pieces will follow.”

Aerin pursed his lips pensively, mulling that over. His mother’s advice reminded Aerin of something he had told Iliana once, when they faced down Ristridin and his Thirteen in the poison fields. _There’s thirteen of them, but only one leads._

He really was his mother’s son.

“You have… given me much to think about,” Aerin said at last, drawing them to a halt. Behind them, their retinue of attendants and guards paused as well. 

Aerin looked skyward, taking in the dim rays of sunlight that just barely streamed through the dense array of clouds. The time for his meeting was drawing near. He pulled away from his mother, inclining his head in a polite farewell. “I will consider all of this as I prepare to meet with the Council of Lords.”

Through the opaque veil, his mother’s face fell. The hand at her side twitched, as if she had intended to reach for him, then thought better of it. “Aerin, I want to tell you—”

“No need, my lady,” Aerin said swiftly, his stomach twisting in discomfort at the sudden tenderness that crept into her voice. “I have heard all that I need to hear for today.”

For once, Aerin was glad he had an audience. The nearby attendants and guards were perhaps the only thing saving him from whatever it was his mother had suddenly deemed was important enough to share with him. He stepped back, retreating toward the path that led to the palace. “Thank you for your counsel, Lady Anielle.”

His mother stared at him for a few moments, the shifting clouds stealing away the watery light that had allowed Aerin a glimpse at Rhiannon’s countenance. At last, she nodded, dipping into a low curtsy. “Of course, Your Majesty. I wish you luck with the lords.”

Aerin merely inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode back toward the palace, leaving his mother behind. It was not until Aerin had cleared the rose gardens that he allowed himself to let out the heavy breath of relief he had not even realized he was holding. Some of the tension slackened in his shoulders now that he had put some distance between himself and the Queen Mother.

“You could stand to be kinder to your mother,” Ristridin mumbled beneath his breath as he fell into step beside Aerin, gravel crunching beneath their boots. “I know it must not be exactly easy having her back after all this time, but she wouldn’t have come if she didn’t care.”

Aerin seriously doubted that. He scowled slightly, glancing at Ristridin sidelong. He refused to believe she came simply out of the goodness of her heart or whatever sense of duty she still miraculously possessed toward guiding her only remaining son. There must have been some other reason why she had returned to Whitetower, a place she had despised so vehemently, she abandoned the city and her family. Aerin just had yet to figure out what that reason was.

He tilted his head, regarding Ristridin with an expression of innocent curiosity. “Have you ever contemplated getting married, Captain?”

Ristridin arched a dark brow. “Not recently. Why?”

“Perhaps you should,” Aerin replied as they stepped into the palace proper, nodding to the guards that were stationed by the doorway. “Then you could start a family of your own whose business you can stick your nose into.”

That startled a laugh out of the knight. Aerin glanced over at him once more, a small smile curling his lips as he watched the old man’s brows raise in amusement.

“Aye,” Ristridin chuckled, shaking his head as he followed Aerin back to his chambers. “I will consider it, Majesty. But let it be known that you are trouble enough.”

* * *

“I don’t understand why you insisted I come with you for this,” Kade muttered beneath his breath as he followed Iliana up the white marble steps to the High Temple of Light. They had foregone their palace uniforms—archivist robes and the flashy plates of the royal guard—in favor of commoner’s clothes, easily mingling with the afternoon crowd.

Iliana glanced over at him, arching her brow as she smirked. “What, you don’t want to spend some quality time with your sister?” She shook her head, redirecting her attention to the grand, sweeping arches that framed the entrance to the Temple. “It’s been a while since we’ve had some spare time for each other, with our busy schedules and all. I thought it’d be fun to bring you along.”

“I think your idea of ‘fun’ has drastically changed over the last few months if you think investigating monster attacks counts as quality time,” Kade muttered as he absently picked at a loose thread in his sleeve.

“That depends on who you ask,” Iliana said lightly, observing the temple-goers and priests as they stepped into the gilded hallways. “Mal would probably think monster hunting is a great pastime for siblings.”

“Then why didn’t you bring _him_ along?” Kade grumbled and Iliana shot him a look. Since when had Kade ever acted so sullen? He was certainly in a mood today. 

“Well, for one thing, Mal couldn’t go with me,” Iliana began, discreetly studying her brother out of the corner of her eye. “He has stuff to do tonight. If he knows what’s good for him, he’s fast asleep.”

Kade looked exhausted, bluish circles beneath his eyes, which didn’t make any sense because Iliana was fairly certain her brother spent more time asleep than he did awake. She had to shove down the urge to reach out and press the back of her hand to his forehead in search of the telltale burn of the Shadow, even though she knew corruption was not the case with Kade. 

It was a hard habit to shake, immediately fearing that the Shadow was to blame whenever someone she knew looked particularly worn out. But as of late, she’d never had a genuine cause to worry. Sometimes exhaustion was just exhaustion. They were all being worked to the bone these days. Her, Mal, Aerin… And evidently, Kade.

“For another thing,” she continued, her voice softening in a way that was meant to assure her brother that she was done teasing. “I wanted to bring _you._ I wasn’t lying when I said that it feels like we haven’t had any time to talk in a while. How are you doing?”

That roused a small smile out of Kade. “Is this the part where you start to fuss over me and ask if I’ve been eating all of my vegetables?”

Iliana rolled her eyes, elbowing him in the side. “Well? Have you?”

Kade snorted. “Yes. _And_ I’ve been drinking plenty of water and getting the right amount of sunlight every day.”

“Just like a good little bean sprout,” Iliana teased, reaching out to rumple Kade’s hair but he ducked out of the way, swatting her hand aside with a startled laugh that drew the attention of nearby visitors.

Once he had danced out of Iliana’s reach and put a safe distance between them, Kade said, “Seriously, Iliana. I’m okay. I’m just…” His expression fell slightly. “It’s just…”

A troubled expression crossed his face and Iliana felt her gut twist. She reached out, grabbing Kade’s wrist and tugging him to stop in a small alcove. She lowered her voice, searching Kade’s face intently. “Are you having… dreams?”

Kade sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he admitted. Then more doubtfully, “Sort of. No.”

Iliana furrowed her brow. “What is that supposed to mean? You either are or you aren’t.”

“It’s not that easy.” Kade shook his head, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I’ve been going to the place in between, Iliana,” he confessed and she resisted the urge to groan.

_The place in between. The place that_ still _makes no godsdamned sense._

“You know I don’t understand how that works,” she reminded him. “I’m not like you, you know.’’

“A Watcher?” he asked.

“Smart.”

Kade huffed. “Yes, you are,” he negated although he did not waste any time bickering with her. “Think of the place in between as an archive. Everything that has ever happened, every memory, is accessible from there. I can walk through history, see lost civilizations and watch ancient wars play out as if I was actually there.”

Iliana’s eyes widened. “That’s incredible!”

“Yes,” Kade agreed although he was uncharacteristically unenthusiastic about it. “I might be able to bring you with me one day, since we’re…” he trailed off, waving a hand to express the shared connection they did not have a name for. _You’re my charge,_ Kade had said months ago. Whatever that meant.

“But I will warn you,” he continued grimly and his voice betrayed all of the exhaustion he surely felt. “Not all memories are pleasant. Even the ones where the good guys win.”

Iliana nodded slowly in understanding. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to go with him into this dream world anyway. “So all that time you spend sleeping… You’re in the place in between? Just brushing up on history?”

Kade shook his head. “I’ve been studying the Emperor. Or at least trying to.”

Iliana stiffened, immediately glancing around the Temple to see if anyone was listening in, but no one appeared to be paying them even the slightest bit of attention. “Osaron?” she whispered, and Kade nodded in confirmation. “Have you seen anything useful? Something that might help us beat him?”

“No. In fact, I’m fairly certain that he never has been beaten, at least as far as I can see.” Kade sighed, exasperated. “I can’t get even a bit of information on him. In the place in between, I can usually feel the memories of people’s emotions.” He held up his hands as if he could feel the invisible weight in his palms. “I’ve felt King Arlan I’s fear when the elven soothsayer gave him that prophecy. I’ve experienced Ellara’s joy when she and Xaius completed their trials and were married during the Lunar Solstice. But I have never felt a single thing from the Emperor, only the people around him.”

Kade shook his head, slightly pale. “There’s something strange about that guy.”

Iliana arched a brow. “Aside from the fact that he’s some murderous warlord from an immortal species?”

“That’s just the thing.” Kade grimaced and looked down at his feet, toeing the edge of his boot along the grooves in the marble floor. “The people of the Empire aren’t immortal. Just him. Even the mages that use the Shadow die eventually. But not him. He’s been there the whole time.”

Iliana’s lips pulled into a frown, her mind starting to race. “That’s…”

“Not good,” Kade supplied and Iliana nodded.

“No, not good at all,” she agreed with a heavy sigh, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. They stood there silently for a little while, Iliana processing everything her brother had just shared. All of it… it was just so absurd. What was any of this supposed to mean?

At last, she dropped her hands and shrugged, the motion at once overwhelmed and helpless. “Well, you said you haven’t been able to figure anything out right now, so there’s nothing we can do. Just… Keep me updated, alright? If anything happens, tell me. Even if you think that I’m too busy.”

Kade grinned a bit impishly. “Even if you’re with Aerin?”

Iliana rolled her eyes. “Especially if I’m with Aerin,” she replied coolly. “He’d want to know, too.”

Kade nodded. “Got it.”

“Good,” Iliana replied, stepping out of the alcove and gesturing for him to follow. “Let’s keep looking.”

“Looking for what?” Kade questioned as they continued down the halls of the Temple.

Iliana shrugged, leading him toward the northern part of the Temple, where the Hall of Saints was located. “Anything out of the ordinary, I guess. I suppose you’ll know it when you see it.” She shrugged. “Or feel it.”

Even though the Temple attack on that little boy was about three days ago, if there was magic involved, especially strong magic—and Iliana was fairly certain that there was—she might be able to sense it. 

When they passed through a familiar, domed chamber with a golden sunburst emblazoned on the floor, Iliana shuddered, unable to forget the horror she’d felt when the marble beneath her had slid back, revealing a pit of prisoners. No, not just prisoners. Sacrifices.

How much pain and suffering had those people endured before Iliana and the rest of her companions found them and put a stop to Solerne’s plan? What misdeeds had been done within these pristine walls before then? All of the priests who had taken part in preparing the purification ritual had been ousted, excommunicated from the Faith of the Light, but Iliana found herself wondering just how deep did the corruption grow? 

In the end, she and Nia had come to the conclusion that Solerne and his priests truly thought they were doing what was right in the end, that their cause was one they wholly believed in. But how long would it be before another group of priests found a different cause to believe in, to wholly dedicate themselves to? And who would be there to stop them from going too far?

_Nia would,_ Iliana reminded herself as they exited the room. _And Aerin. And me._

At last, they emerged into the Hall of Saints, where the other night’s attack had taken place. As they passed the set of double doors she and Mal had burst through, Iliana paused, recalling everything she had seen that night. 

She jutted her chin toward the end of the Hall and murmured to Kade, “Mal and I saw the creature flying around the Temple. That’s how we found it. But it attacked from over there. Hidden in the dark.”

Kade nodded and together, they continued on, bordered on both sides by the alabaster effigies of the Saints of Light. When they passed Damaris’ statue, Iliana noted that the floors were spotless, scrubbed clean of the soot stains left behind by the defeated Shadow beast. She wondered absently if the boy had cleaned them when they left or if some other acolyte had taken to that chore.

Iliana scanned the faces of the acolytes that lingered in the Hall, all of whom were either praying to a Saint or reading their scriptures in secluded alcoves, and considered the possibility that the boy she had rescued was among them. Would he recognize her if he was? Iliana was not certain how much he had seen of her that night and wished she had come today in some sort of disguise. But showing up at the Temple in a hooded cloak in broad daylight was just as conspicuous, if not even more so. 

“It’s kind of depressing, isn’t it?” Kade mumbled, his eyes glued to the statues as they passed by. _Pasha, Holland, Calla, Hector._ Iliana recalled the Saint’s names in accordance with their divine faces, although she could not remember what they were known for.

_Dying tragically,_ her subconscious remarked snidely.

Her knowledge was not born out of her own faith—for she did not really have any—but rather it had been developed from the stories Nia had told over dinner or drinks in the months she, Iliana, and Mal had lived in the capital before all of this trouble began.

Nostalgia nearly made Iliana think of that time as the good old days, but when she thought of her life now and all that she had gained… Well, despite all of the trouble, Iliana found that she would not trade what she had now for anything. 

“What is?” she asked, tilting her head inquisitively.

“The Saints,” Kade began to explain, shrugging one shoulder. “They died doing good deeds. Protecting people. And now people have faith in them and what they stood for.”

“What’s so depressing about that?” Odd, for sure, but Iliana was not sure she would call that depressing.

“What’s depressing is that if they had survived,” Kade explained, rubbing the back of his neck as if speaking these words in such a holy place made him uneasy, “no one would have remembered them. They would not have become such icons. And if they hadn’t become icons, people would not have faith in them. So if you think about it, dying is the best thing they could have done.”

Iliana slowed her steps, giving her brother a bewildered look. That was… 

“You’re right,” she said, shaking her head. “That _is_ depressing.”

“Just an observation,” Kade shrugged. “They’re not Saints—they’re martyrs.”

Iliana shook her head. “They can be both. Their actions didn’t make them Saints. The humans did,” she added, recalling the conversation she and Mor had in the Crow’s Nest of the Aerie the evening before the Battle of Ash. “Just like elves made the gods.”

_It is the people who determine who they believe to be gods, and that belief will always be greater than the being behind it,_ Mor had told her. _Am I a real god? I cannot say, for that is for the stories to decide. If I am, I need not prove it. Those who try to proclaim themselves a god are either mad or lying._

_Worship makes you more,_ Iliana had concluded. _The New Gods of the Shared Pantheon were just elves who had given their lives to the Great War. The survivors were the ones to elevate them to godhood. They granted the titles._

_Exactly. War breeds fear. Fear breeds a yearning for salvation and a place for people to lay their faith._

Iliana could not help but wonder that when all of this was over, would any Saints or gods rise in their wake?

Her stomach twisted. She did not want to even think about that right now.

She and Kade reached the end of the Hall, stopping at the base of Saint Alina’s statue, and looked around. As far as Iliana could see, there was nothing out of the ordinary. But as far as she could _sense…_

“Iliana,” Kade said, noticing her sudden attentiveness just as the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

She felt it, just as she had in the Cave. In Rysoth. _Magic._

“Not here,” she said quietly, gazing around the hall. Her gaze fell on another corridor that led deeper into the Temple, the entryway framed by the statues of Saint Emira and Saint Athos. “This way.”

The feeling was faint. The lingering vestiges of the magic that had brought the Shadow beast here swirled through the cool air of the Temple like a gentle breeze. During all of her other investigations, Iliana had not caught so much as a whiff of magic to follow. She wondered if the only reason she was able to do so now was that the Temple was filled with so many magical artifacts and users. 

The Watcher told her that magic had will, that it lingered where it could flourish. Iliana supposed that for all of its faults, there was no better place in Morella, aside from Undermount and some old places of worship, for magic to thrive than the Temple.

Iliana followed that feeling through the halls of the High Temple and even tried once to draw the magic into herself to use, but it slipped through her fingers like water cupped between shaking palms. She clenched her jaw, biting back her frustration. 

How was it that after nearly two months of practicing—two months of resting, and meditating, and _wishing_ —she could barely muster even a fraction of the power she’d once wielded? Strong blasts of the Light winded her. Elemental magic made her bones ache. A week ago, when she’d been hunting a Shadow hound in the countryside just beyond the heartoak forest, Cleansing Fire made her pass out. It was embarrassing, frankly, that Mor had to bring her back to Whitetower clutched in his talons. She’d woken up in the rookery the next morning with feathers and birdseed in her hair.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Kade asked, his uncertainty clear as they left the main part of the Temple where the rest of the visitors lingered. 

“Not a clue,” Iliana admitted, noticing the curious looks acolytes gave them in passing. Technically, all areas of the Temple were open to everyone, even those outside of the Faith of Light—except for the private quarters of those who dwelled there. But she doubted any casual visitors ever had reason to go beyond the main halls. “But I’m pretty sure we’re going the right way.”

Following the traces of magic, Iliana led them through the halls, and eventually, they wound up in an overgrown garden, decorated with tinkling fountains and trellises that were overflowing with vines and morning glories. It was peaceful—peaceful in a way that very few places in Whitetower were, and Iliana could picture Nia clearly here, dressed in her old priestess’ robes as she read her morning scriptures.

A part of Iliana wanted to linger, to savor the air of sanctity and serenity while she could, but she pressed forward, following a small stone path that wound through the dense foliage and out of the back gates of the Temple, spitting them out onto the streets of Whitetower.

“Uh, are you sure we’re going the right way?” Kade asked doubtfully and Iliana shook her head at his unease.

“I’m sure.”

Despite Kade’s grumblings, they eventually ended up at an old tower at the northeastern edge of the city, which, according to Kade, used to be a clock tower. Now, it only served as a viewpoint.

“Must not be a very popular one,” Iliana mumbled as they entered the building, the old wooden door creaking shut on rusty hinges behind them. The spiraling stairs beneath them groaned with age as they ascended through the tower, but miraculously, they held.

The feeling Iliana had was stronger here and the back of her nose began to burn, eyes watering as if she was holding in a sneeze. The tower also had an odd scent, although Iliana was not sure if perhaps her elven senses were picking up something from outside. Beneath the stench of mildew, damp stone, and moss, she could smell ozone and something even more pungent, like spices.

When they finally emerged into the open viewing chamber of the tower, Iliana sneezed so hard, she stumbled back, nearly knocking Kade down the stairs.

“Hey!” he yelped, barely catching himself against the rickety banister. 

Iliana half turned, grabbing the front of Kade’s tunic before he could trip. “Sorry, I just—”

Iliana’s apology died in her throat as she gazed around the open balcony, noticing first the brilliant view of Whitetower—glittering and golden beneath them, even under the cloudy skies—then the strange marking on the floor.

Outlined in chalk were two crossed lines— _X marks the spot,_ Iliana thought with a sense of unnerving familiarity. The _X_ was faded, as if whoever had drawn it tried to erase it and misty autumn weather had taken its toll. Bits of ash and soot were scattered about the ground, but Iliana’s attention was wholly absorbed by the thin dusting of bluish powder that was piled against the stone balustrade, as if the wind had swept it into place.

Iliana’s stomach twisted, the sight of that dust stirring some hazy memory she could not quite grasp. She felt like she had just woken from an awful dream and could not remember what it was about. But Iliana knew with gut-wrenching certainty that she’d seen this powder before, somewhere far, far away from here.

She crouched down and swiped her finger across the floor, collecting the bluish powder on the pad of her forefinger. Iliana examined it carefully—it was a bit shimmery in the greyish light that streamed between the clouds and was fine to the touch. Then she held it beneath her nose and sniffed.

_“Achoo!”_

Iliana sneezed again, dusting her finger off on the front of her trousers as she wrinkled her nose in an attempt to banish the burning sensation. Oh, yes, _that_ was the pungent odor she smelled as they climbed through the tower. She sneezed again, her eyes watering. There was only one place she had smelled herbs, spices, and powders as strong as this—Borte’s workshop. But that couldn’t be it… 

The memory struck Iliana like a tidal wave, the force of it causing her to shoot to her feet and stagger against the pillars that upheld the tower’s roof. She stared down at the faded _X,_ but instead of seeing chalk lines, she saw deep trenches lined with that blue powder. She saw a smoking bundle of herbs, deadly tendrils of Shadow, and—

Iliana squeezed her eyes shut but that did nothing to stop the memory that haunted her like the plague. Blood. So much blood. _The halflings…_

“These are markings for a portal,” she ground out, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as Kade reached for her shoulder, squeezing gently. She took another deep breath, then opened her eyes once more, fingernails digging into her palms. “A rift between the realms.”

Kade’s brows shot up. “You mean _this_ is where the Shadow gargoyle came through?”

He stared at the intersecting chalk lines, his face pale, and dragged the toe of his boot through them, further muddling the shape for good measure. 

“Yes,” Iliana said thickly, swallowing against the dryness in her throat. “I’ve seen it before. You—the Watcher showed me once. In a dream. This is how the Emperor brought his army to Cragheart.” She shook her head, gripping the balustrade tightly. “But the ritual had been bigger then. More… gruesome.”

She braced her elbows on the railing and leaned over them, pressing her forehead to the backs of her thumbs as she took several steadying breaths. “The ritual requires blood, but…” Iliana sniffed, a small blossom of relief blooming in her chest as she realized she did not smell that signature coppery tang amidst all of the other scents. “I don’t think this one did. Just raw magic. Which means that it could only stay open for a very short amount of time.”

“A short amount of time,” Kade stated slowly, “but long enough to allow a Shadow monster to come through?”

“Exactly,” Iliana confirmed, combing her hand through her hair. But there was one more thing… She straightened, eyes widening. “The rift spell I saw… It was cast in the Shadow Realm.”

Iliana turned to Kade, who stared at her blankly for a moment. Then, his eyes widened in understanding, lips parting. “Which means—”

“Which means whoever’s letting these creatures in… ” Iliana said with a grim nod of confirmation. “They are doing it from our side.”

* * *

This was, to put it quite simply, ridiculous.

Aerin sat at the head of a long, ash wood table, overseeing the Council of Lords. The twenty-four noblemen of Whitetower were seated all along the table, bickering back and forth about the Empire of Ash.

“Are we even certain the Empire is coming back?”

“Are the Shadow creatures not proof enough for you? They must be attacking for a reason!”

“How do we know that isn’t just a plot? A ruse staged to instill fear?”

A disbelieving scoff. “Staged by who?”

A low mutter. “Perhaps we should ask the Blood King…”

They had been flinging baseless accusations like this for the better part of the hour, and so far, Aerin had not even deigned to address them, the foolishness self-evident. But as the seconds slowly ticked by and no progress was made, he found that his patience was wearing thin. _Extremely_ thin.

Aerin gritted his teeth as he drummed his fingers against the carved arm of his chair, his neck starting to ache beneath the weight of his crown. He was not sure how much longer he could suffer through this stupidity.

His gaze flicked toward the door to the council room, his heart skipping a beat when he caught sight of a sheath of dark hair, then deflating when he realized the human knight stationed there was not Iliana. Aside from the dark hair, the two women looked nothing alike. No, Iliana was somewhere in the city, presumably investigating, as she had told him she planned to do. 

Aerin wished he had taken her offer to switch shifts and stand guard for the Council meeting. It would certainly make the whole thing more bearable, even if they could barely do more than share a spare glance. 

But she had business to attend to and so did he. And besides, the further away Iliana was from the lords and the machinations of the court, the better.

Aerin’s gaze shifted to Ristridin, who stood a few feet to his right. The old knight’s expression was just shy of pitying. Aerin sighed.

He would give the lords a few more minutes of pointless bickering, just so they could say they made their voices heard, and if they did not get anywhere in that time, he would take over and force them to listen. If something as small as that made the lords perceive him as a tyrant… Well, Aerin could not say that it would be worth it, but at least some progress would be made. Hopefully.

“Have we considered the possibility that these rumors of war are just… rumors? Given traction by paranoia?”

A snide whisper. “Perhaps the corruption addled his mind…”

Aerin gripped the arms of his chair so tightly, the wood groaned. If he had to hear this drivel _one more time…_

“My lords!”

Aerin’s darkening mood was tempered as one of the noblemen stood, clapping his hands together to draw their attention. Aerin sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with apprehension. _Lord Roiben._

Aerin had been keeping tabs on the blonde noble all morning, attempting to gauge his reaction to all of the discourse, foolish as it was. But it seemed that the lord was more skilled at hiding his emotions than most of the other nobles, for Aerin was not able to guess a single thing that ran through that man’s head. Which he found to be mildly aggravating, for it was Roiben who oversaw and funded most of Morella’s weapon-making. If Aerin had to sway anyone to his side, it was him.

From what Aerin could recall of Roiben Antervell, he was smart and reasonable, skilled in the art of business. The same could be said of his wife, Lady Astrid, and their daughter, Anora. Aerin recalled seeing them last at his father’s memorial, remembered the look of understanding that had passed between him and Roiben when the lord had caught sight of the set of interlaced hands in Aerin’s lap.

He had a feeling that business was not the only thing the lord was skilled at. No, he knew very well that Roiben knew how to play the Game.

“We are wasting time debating whether or not this war is real,” Lord Roiben announced once the Council had quieted enough for him to speak. “It is. And it is imminent.”

Aerin nearly sagged in relief. _Finally. At least_ someone _has some sense,_ he thought, even though a part of him cautioned that he should not celebrate just yet. 

“We have seen it,” Roiben continued smoothly. “The proof is in our very streets, with Shadow beasts running amok. And contrary to some… _conspiracies_ —” His lip curled disdainfully. “—I do not believe these attacks are part of an elaborate ruse staged by His Majesty to spur us into action. The very notion of such a thing is in fact offensive and treasonous.”

A bit of smug satisfaction wound its way through Aerin’s chest as the Whitetower lords who had indulged in such talk paled and shied back in shame. But even so, he could not help but wonder why Lord Roiben was making such a valiant claim on his behalf. The uncertainty filled him with apprehension.

“Officially, one of the late King Arlan’s last decrees was reinstating King Aerin as his heir and absolving him of his crimes.” Roiben continued, splaying his hands across the table as he gazed around at the assembly, ensuring he had everyone’s undivided attention. “Unofficially, he was asking us, the people of Morella, and more specifically, the Lords of Whitetower, to trust his son.” 

He turned his gaze onto Aerin, his blue eyes uncharacteristically warm. “And I do. I was present at the battle in the palace, and I watched our new king battle the Emperor alone with a determination that can only be fueled by a genuine love for one’s kingdom. King Aerin has Morella’s best interest at heart.”

“His Majesty insists that the war demands our attention and I believe he is right,” Roiben declared, turning his attention away from Aerin to the rest of the room. “Which is why I motion that for the time being, we should keep weapons and supplies production as it is but increase food production and the training of our men.”

Aerin stiffened, his fingers curling so tightly around the arm of his chair, his knuckles grew white. He could not help but bite out, “Keep supplies and weapon production the same? We are preparing for a war, not a single battle.”

“The Battle of Ash was won within hours,” Roiben replied smoothly, unruffled by Aerin’s clear dissatisfaction. “Perhaps the Great Conquerors are not as great as the stories led us to believe.”

Aerin’s eyes narrowed. He knew he was crossing into dangerous territory by allowing his temper to rise. He was born and bred for diplomacy, not giving orders. Negotiating and appeasing were his greatest skills. But lives were at stake and these men had the gall to be so flippant, so willing to bide their time when in reality they had none to spare… 

Aerin’s jaw was tight as he ground out with lethal calm, “You are willing to take that chance?

“I did say ‘for the time being,’ Your Majesty,” Roiben said placatingly, a voice of reason. “As of right now, there is no evidence that would lead me to believe that the threat is as severe as you say.” 

Aerin opened his mouth to respond, but Roiben was not quite finished. The lord waved his hand toward the arched windows of the council room, gesturing at the glittering city that spread below them. “As it is, we have valuable allies,” he continued, folding his arms behind his back. “The Avian Kingdom flies under our banners. A dragon is under your command. That is something to be proud of, Your Majesty. One day, people will sing songs of your deeds. Your modesty prevents you from seeing how strong we already are.”

Aerin’s hands curled into fists beneath the table. “Modesty, caution… call it what you will. But I do not plan to take any risks with the lives of my people.”

“And neither do we,” Roiben replied fluidly, retaining the guise of perfect rationality. “Which is why we will keep a close eye on the situation as it evolves. We should reconvene soon to discuss adjusting the levels of production.”

“Perhaps at the Equinox Ball?” another noble, a plump man Aerin knew as Lord Caelyn, suggested. “We will all be in the capital for the festivities. Perhaps we should meet the day after the ball.”

Aerin resisted the urge to groan. _The Equinox Ball._ Amidst all of the war planning and his own tinkering, he’d nearly forgotten about the seasonal dance, simply handing the task of planning the gaudy event off to his Master of Revels. Like all palace social events, Aerin begrudged the Equinox Ball, almost as much as he begrudged the idea of prolonging this debate of whether or not to increase weapons and supplies production for Morella’s military.

But… the Equinox was only a couple of weeks away, which Aerin supposed was better than nothing. At least the lords had all agreed today that the war was real. And the fact that they planned to reconvene at all meant that Aerin still had some time to convince them.

Aerin let out a long breath through his teeth as all eyes turned to him, awaiting his statement. He dipped his chin. “That would be well.”

“Excellent,” Roiben declared, clapping his hands together, but before he could steer the meeting to an end, Aerin spoke up once more.

“Although I have one more suggestion to add to our plan before we disband,” he said slowly, recapturing the attention of the room without raising his voice. He would never stop marveling at the power and respect his new position yielded to him.

Roiben nodded his head. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

Aerin swallowed the lump in his throat, recalling the advice a dear friend had given to him. 

_People often say that one of the most difficult challenges a ruler will ever face is inspiring loyalty amongst their people,_ Tyril had said to him once. _A good one can do so without even trying. But the best rulers know that the hardest part about inspiring loyalty is living with it. Good men and women are willing to fight for the people they believe in. Die for them. And sometimes, you must let them._

“We send officers into towns and villages across the kingdom to facilitate enlistments,” Aerin proposed, leaning back in his chair with all of the air and pomp of a man confidently giving orders. “Let the people themselves decide whether to fight and how dire the threat is. If we have a sizable influx of new recruits, then we will have no choice but to increase weapon production.”

This skin around Lord Roiben’s eyes tightened. “An ingenious idea, Your Majesty,” he conceded, nodding as the palace scribe wrote that down.

“Mm,” Aerin merely hummed in agreement before he added, “Enlistments are open to men and women over twenty-five.”

One of the lords coughed in surprise. “Twenty-five? That’s—”

That was older than he was. But on this, Aerin would not budge. Already, he had seen battle too many times and had intimate knowledge of the lingering effects it had. Even now, days after the fighting had ended, he still could not stop seeing the horrors of such violence when he was alone in the dead of night.

“Twenty-five and no younger,” he said firmly, expression hard and unrelenting. “There are already many soldiers under the age of twenty-five in our army, but they have been training for years and have already seen the Empire’s might. I will not shame them by forcing them out, nor will I allow more of the kingdom’s youth to march to their deaths.”

The council room was silent for a few long moments, the Lords of Whitetower simply staring at their king as his new declaration sunk in. Aerin stared right back at them, unfaltering, and at last, the lords nodded their assent, some gestures more begrudging than others.

“Good,” Aerin stated once their scribe finished writing that down. “I believe that settles all of our affairs. The Council of Lords is dismissed.”

No sooner had he spoken those words did the air fill with the rustle of movement as the two dozen lords assembled pushed back their chairs and began to exit, the low murmur of conversation lingering between them. Aerin watched them file out, his attention lingering on a certain blonde-haired, willowy noble.

“Lord Roiben,” Aerin called before the man could leave the room. “A word.”

The lord paused in his step, the other nobles continuing on around him. The man nodded, remained by his seat, and waited until the door swung shut behind the last lord of Whitetower before he said, “Yes, Your Majesty?”

While Roiben still stood by his spot at the table, Aerin did not rise. Instead, he leaned back in his sear, maintaining an air of authority as he laid his hands atop the arms of his chair. He nodded to the palace scribe, who immediately took her leave. Aerin knew that if a private deal was to be made here today, there should be no written record of it. Captain Ristridin followed the scribe, taking his position outside the large council room to stop anyone else from entering.

“You supported my claim that the war is a serious matter of utmost urgency,” Aerin said neutrally, careful not to let any of his irritation seep into his voice. It was no secret that the King was dissatisfied with the results of today’s meeting, but there was no reason to be excessive. He needed the court to know that he was not some emotional whelp with a horrible temper. He needed them to see that he could rule with poise and grace. 

“And yet,” Aerin continued, “you did not pledge to increase production of weapons, nor its funding, which is, as I understand it, not only your field of interest but also the lifeblood of any war.”

Roiben raised his brows, caught off guard by Aerin’s forwardness. He nodded. “Yes.”

“Hm,” Aerin hummed, tapping his finger against the arm of his chair as he carefully regarded the noble. 

_Strike the tower at its base and the rest of the pieces will follow,_ his mother had said. Now was the time to do so. But what did Lord Roiben want?

Aerin leaned forward, laying his forearms on the table. “You are a smart man, Lord Roiben. Do you truly believe that a war with an enemy so terrible will be settled so easily?”

Roiben shrugged, the motion almost casual, as if they were discussing what sort of tea was most agreeable, not the safety of their kingdom. “War is never easy. So many lives are unnecessarily lost, even in the most benign of battles.”

“Then you would agree that all precautions should be taken to avoid any… unnecessary losses?” Aerin presumed, steepling his fingers atop the tabletop. “Such as increasing the production of weapons and supplies.”

Roiben sighed, giving Aerin a wry smile that was at once sympathetic and patronizing. “Yes,” he replied. “You are cautious, Your Majesty. I respect your dedication to the wellbeing of our people _and_ your dedication to avoid staining your hands of any more _innocent_ blood.”

Aerin felt a muscle in his jaw feather at the obvious slight, heard Captain Ristridin’s armor creak as he stiffened near the door. His blood boiled, both with shame and anger, but he fought to not let any of that show.

“I share in your ideals,” Roiben continued, waving his hand lightly. “I want our people to be safe and well-protected. But I also believe in avoiding unnecessary costs.”

Aerin arched a brow. “Unnecessary costs?” he remarked dryly. “You do realize that it is the Crown that pays most of the expense in wartime, yes?”

“Yes, of course,” Roiben replied with a placating nod. “But, I have businesses outside of steel production to run, Your Majesty, and I cannot do that if I am allocating most of my resources and laborers to weapons production.”

_So_ that’s _why he is dragging his feet?_ Aerin thought bitterly. _For money?_

Or perhaps it was for that reason and many more. Either way, Aerin did not believe for one second that the noble cared about their people like he said he did. 

“I see,” Aerin said coolly, even though he did not. He could never understand how men prioritized their own wealth over the lives of others.

“But,” Roiben added, finally leaving his place at the table to approach Aerin. 

Aerin arched a brow as the older man drew near, unamused. Of course, there was a _but._

“I could be persuaded to take on those costs— _all_ of those costs,” Roiben stated slowly, his inflection obvious, “for the right price.”

Ah, and there it was. Rhiannon was right. All men want for something.

Aerin narrowed his eyes. _Here we go._ “The right price being…?”

Lord Roiben smiled. “A marriage proposal.”

Aerin nearly choked on his own tongue. This time, there was no schooling his face into a careful mask of neutrality. His surprise was evident on his face, clear as crystal. He sat back in his chair, hands falling into his lap. “A marriage proposal? To whom?”

“Why, to Anora, of course!” Roiben replied as if this were obvious. “I’m sure you remember that Anora is an incredibly smart woman, as you are an incredibly smart man. You are both compassionate. Ambitious.” His lip curled slightly. “Ruthless. It would be an agreeable match.”

“Agreeable,” was all Aerin said in response. It took everything he had to not outright glare at Lord Roiben.

“Think it over, Majesty,” Roiben said lightly. “You need to arm your… well, army. I need to do what is best for posterity. And,” he added, “this will also take care of your future problems.”

Aerin narrowed his eyes. “My ‘future problems?’”

“Every king needs an heir, Majesty,” Roiben replied with a small, sly smile. “There, your interests and mine appear to be aligned.”

Aerin’s nails bit into his palm as he curled his hands into fists beneath the table. “I see.”

Roiben nodded, reaching out to tap the table with his fingers before folding his arms behind his back. “Don’t answer me just yet. Use the Equinox Ball to meet with Anora. Talk with her. Reacquaint yourselves. Then give me your decision.” 

Aerin nodded, hoping the movement was not as stiff as it felt. “I will give it some thought.”

Roiben smiled, dipping his head. “That is all I ask, Your Majesty. I think you will find that it is a very favorable arrangement. To both parties.”

Aerin nodded again, eyes slivering into a glare once Lord Roiben bid him farewell and turned, striding out of the council chambers. It was not until Aerin heard the door swing shut behind the lord, signifying he was alone at last, that Aerin slumped in his chair and let his head fall into his hands.

What the hells was he going to do?

  
  
  



	5. The Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Flotilla, Imtura makes a risky move to secure her mother's fleet.

Imtura had expected a lot of things to happen when the  _ Wraith _ docked at Flotilla last night. She had expected the Flotillan guards to swamp her ship—which they did—and fuss over her, flinging royal titles left and right as they knelt at her feet like a pack of obedient dogs—which they  _ also _ did.

She did not, however, expect to find that her mother was  _ gone. _

_ “What do you mean, ‘she’s not here?’” Imtura snarled, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Behind her, Kraglin and the rest of the crew set about unloading the  _ Wraith’s  _ cargo hold of old supplies and preparing the ship for a few days at port. No one knew how long they would be docked at Flotilla; Imtura supposed it depended on how stubborn her mother decided to be.  _

_ The guards before her stiffened, taken aback by the viciousness of her tone. “Her Majesty is away on business—” _

_ Imtura’s brows lowered. “What kind of business?” _

_ “It is not for us to say, Your High—” _

_ “Then what good are you?” she snapped before the man could eke out that wretched title. She glanced at Kraglin, who stood behind her, then Morrigan, who stood beside him, gazing at the floating city with unmasked wonder. Imtura sighed, biting at her lip ring. “When will she be back?” _

_ “We don’t know for certain. It could be as late as tomorrow evening,” one of the guards replied cautiously. _

_ “Tomo—” Imtura cut herself off, reining in her anger. She closed her eyes shut and took a deep, steadying breath, reminding herself that these men were not responsible for her mother’s activities. No one was, aside from Ventra herself. When Imtura opened her eyes again, her temper had cooled somewhat, although her irritation remained. She shook her head, unable to stop her gaze from wandering to the eastern horizon. “I can’t wait that long.” _

But left with no other options, she  _ had  _ waited.

After a restless sleep on the  _ Wraith _ , Imtura dedicated the next morning to giving Morrigan a thorough tour of the sprawling maze of floating walkways and retired vessels of Flotilla, tossing out the names of her favorite ships as she went. The  _ Black Spire,  _ the  _ Copper Thief,  _ the  _ Bloodkraken,  _ the  _ Maiden of the Sea…  _ Imtura did not even realize she knew the names of all of these places until the words were spilling out of her mouth, her voice taking on a tinge of excitement every time she urged Morrigan to take notice of something she loved so dearly. 

There was her favorite tavern, the Sailor’s Lament, which had ale that tasted like stale seawater, but she’d be damned if it wasn’t one of the cheapest and strongest drinks in Flotilla. They passed the supply mill that always gave her a few extra bags of salt for meat, not because she was Princess Imtura, but  _ Captain Tal Kaelen, _ and here in the reaches of Flotilla that knew Imtura better than Ventra— _ out there _ on the roiling waves of the Cartesian Sea—she was respected as such. 

Morrigan had gone red with laughter as Imtura pointed out an old, repurposed ship that was charmingly named  _ Taldaro’s Tit, _ after the legendary orc Vinestra of Clan Taldaro, who was not only known for inventing the modern warship and her incredible prowess in battle, but also her equally incredible prowess in the bedroom.  _ Taldaro’s Tit _ —yes,  _ tit _ singular, not plural, and if anyone bothered to ask, the Flotillans swore up and down that it was specifically, “the  _ right tit  _ not the _ left” _ —was the best place to go dancing after downing a few drinks in the taverns.

_ “You must love this place,” Morrigan noted, as she reverently ran her fingertips along the hull of a bobbing ship as they passed, the feathers of her wings whispering in the briny breeze that swept through the city. “Flotilla, I mean.” _

_ Imtura lifted a brow, glancing over her shoulder at Morrigan as she swaggered down the wooden walkways. It was a bit of a strange feeling, to finally have to look up at someone else as she spoke. Morrigan wasn’t built like Imtura, but she did have a good couple of inches on the orc captain, and Imtura knew that her strength wasn’t something to scoff at. _

_ “You think so, birdie?” she questioned. _

_ Morrigan nodded, gazing around. “The way you talk about Flotilla… It’s the same way my brother talks about the Aerie. With such fondness and familiarity.” _

_ Imtura shrugged, shoving her hands into her pockets as she ambled along. “I’m fond of it, yeah. And I know the city like the back of my hand. It’s familiar.”  _

_ “Well,” Morrigan said casually, glancing over at Imtura. “Maybe knowing something and loving something aren’t all that different.” _

_ Imtura thought that over for a few moments, then bobbed her head. “Maybe you’ve got a point. I know all about the less than amazing parts of the city, and sometimes… Well, sometimes coming back here bums me out,” she confessed. “Feels a bit like swapping out the sea for some shackles.” She shook her head and shrugged. “But no matter what happens, it’ll always be home.” _

Imtura mulled this conversation over as she sat at a rickety, ale-stained table in a cozy corner of the Sailor’s Lament, an untouched stein resting by her elbow. After wrapping up her tour with Morrigan, Imtura spent the next few hours whipping the  _ Wraith _ into tip top shape. She swabbed the deck, replaced frayed sections of the rigging, and chipped barnacles off the hull—it was menial work, housekeeping chores that Imtura had not done since she herself was a swabbie. 

That must have been… almost a decade ago, at least. Imtura could not wrap her head around the fact that it had been nearly ten years since that fateful evening, when she had ran away from Flotilla and stowed herself away on the infamous  _ Sea King _ . But  _ that _ was another story.

Repairing the  _ Wraith _ was not stimulating work, but it  _ was _ distracting, and Imtura was more than happy to take on the tasks, if only so she could have something to do while she waited for her dreaded mother to finally grace her with an appearance. 

But the crew—namely Kraglin, with his damned big heart—put their foot down when Imtura started polishing the  _ Wraith’s _ hull. 

_ “What kind of pirate lets their captain do all of the work?” Kraglin had exclaimed jovially before stooping to grab Imtura’s legs while his twin brother, Marglin, grabbed her shoulders and began to haul her, kicking and spewing obscenities, off the ship. “You’ve got to have some fun, boss.”  _

_ They dragged her, and consequently, Morrigan, into the Flotillan nightlife, down the bobbing, uneven avenues, all the way to the Sailor’s Lament, where her quartermaster and boatswain ordered a round of ale for the entire crew, including that yellow-bellied, doe-eyed, Parnassus cabin boy. _

_ “This is coming out of your coin, not mine,” Imtura snarled as they set her down at a booth in the far corner of the tavern and gave her a tankard, much to their merry amusement. _

_ “Sure thing, boss,” Marglin promised placatingly, ordering a platter of roasted octopus, fried fish heads, and seaweed skewers for the table. “Sure thing.” _

With a mixture of warmth and amusement, Imtura watched her crewmates guzzle down their rounds from her spot in the secluded booth, ale sloshing over the edges of their tankards, and Morrigan sandwiched in between them. She was glad to see that her crew had quickly taken the winged woman in, treating her like one of their own, and Morrigan, to her credit, had no problem in keeping up with their revelry. 

By the Moon, Morrigan matched  _ Iskra _ —the  _ Wraith’s _ navigator—pint for pint without losing her wits, and  _ that  _ woman could drink most orcs under the table. Morrigan also didn’t even bat an eye at the strange array of food. Imtura reckoned that in Rysoth, she’d probably seen stranger.

Imtura wished she could join them, that she could laugh, and dance, and get so irrefutably drunk, she couldn't even remember her own damn name. But for the first time in her swashbuckling life, she did not drink.

She simply couldn’t. There was too much resting on this meeting with Ventra, and even though being a little drunk may have been the only hope she had of getting through said meeting with her sanity intact, it would do no good to anyone for her to show up boozed off her feet. Her mother was already disappointed in her enough.

Imtura watched Morrigan, the members of her crew, and the other Flotillans with a warm sort of contentment that wriggled its way into her anxious heart. She supposed that even if this whole meeting with Ventra went to complete and utter shit, there was one good thing that came out of her return to Flotilla: she got to bring her crew home once more, got to give them this small slice of normalcy before the world went arse up again.

Imtura reached into her pocket and pulled out a single gold doubloon. It was an old piece, dated from before the current Morellian currency was established, and was the first bit of gold Imtura had ever earned as a pirate, a gift from one great captain to another. Only Imtura hadn’t been a captain then. Just a runaway princess, trying to find where she belonged.

Imtura flipped the coin on her thumb and caught it, weighing it thoughtfully in her palm. On one side, it featured a familiar curving symbol. At the bottom, there was a curled arch that looked like a wave poised to crash. Above that was a seashell-like spiral, with two great horns sprouting from the sides. The symbol of her people. The other side featured a crude depiction of land and sea meeting beneath a sky full of stars.

Both faces were worn, both from age and years of Imtura rubbing her thumb against its surface whenever she felt the weight of leadership to be particularly heavy upon her shoulders. She set it on the old, wooden table and spun it on its edge, the lantern lights of the tavern flickering on its golden face.

_ If I ever find it… I’ll let you know.  _

The coin spun and spun, then wobbled and wavered.

_ Then, you can bring our people home. _

It was a foolish plan, a dreamer’s hope. Imtura knew that place was long gone, lost to fire, to the sea, and to time itself. To go looking for it… That was like chasing a child’s fairytale.

But… 

She had seen many impossible things, even before getting involved with this Shadow Realm business. She had seen so many wonders… What was one more?

Imtura caught the doubloon as it fell, swiping her thumb over the surface that featured the landscape. Then, she pocketed it and stood.

After leaving a quick word with Kraglin, Imtura ducked out of the Sailor’s Lament and made her way across the bobbing walkways of Flotilla, acknowledging the passing nods of respect she got as Captain and ignoring the deferential inclinations she received as Princess.

Officially, Flotilla had no temples or shrines dedicated to elements of nature the orcs worshipped: the Skies, the Winds, the Ocean, the Earth, the Sun, the Stars, and the Moon. Unlike the Faith of the Light and the Shared Pantheon, religion among the orcs was decentralized, piety left to the individual. But there  _ were  _ places in the floating city in which Imtura’s people liked to leave their offerings.

The  _ Sea Nymph  _ was one such place. 

Imtura crossed the gangway onto an old, barnacle-covered ship, reaching out to affectionately pat its hull as she boarded. On the bow of the ancient vessel, the name was painted in flowing script, the white paint faded with age. 

Barely an adolescent, Imtura had not been around when Ventra officially won over all of the orc fleets and established Flotilla as her capital. Instead, she had been hidden away on a ship with a few trusted orcs of the Minurva Clan, far away from all of the danger and political turmoil as her mother upended centuries of tradition. 

But Imtura heard that at the time, when Flotilla was little more than a small cluster of old ships and floating shacks, the  _ Sea Nymph _ had already been stationed here, with a small collection of oddities already hidden inside. There were even rumors that the  _ Sea Nymph _ was the  _ first _ ship in Flotilla, the starting point around which the rest of the floating city had been constructed. 

Imtura did not know if those rumors were true, but the  _ Sea Nymph _ was certainly weathered enough to fit the tale, and in the last decade, no one had ever claimed ownership of the vessel. As such, its wellbeing was left in the collective hands of the Flotillans, which was probably why it had fallen into a state of such disrepair.

As she crossed the deck of the orphaned vessel and descended the stairs that led into its belly, Imtura found herself wishing she could have seen the  _ Sea Nymph _ in its heyday. Even with all of its rotted wood and the massive holes that gaped in the floors, there were still vestiges of its past glory—faded gold filigree on the bannister, waterlogged wool rugs, chipped carvings of mermaids laid into the creaking walls… 

Once, it must have been  _ beautiful. _

But now, Imtura supposed the ship had a different kind of beauty, and if she was being honest, she preferred it. Deep in the vessel’s cargo hold, Imtura was surrounded by the multitude of offerings orcs from all across the Cartesian Sea had left here for the elements. 

Windchimes and sparkling bits of glass hung from the ceiling, tinkling softly with the swaying motion of the ship and the lazy breeze that streamed through the cracks in the hull—offerings to the Skies and the Winds.

An old fur rug sat in the back corner, right in the path of the moonlight that streamed into the room through a hole in the side of the ship. On top of the rug sat precious gemstones and silver dimes, offerings laid out for the Moon and the Stars.

Imtura crossed to the ship’s stern and clambered up a ladder made of rope, hauling herself into what had once been the quarters of the  _ Sea Nymph’s  _ captain. The bedroom was in no better shape than the rest of the ship—the main entrance was obstructed by fallen beams and splintered wood, the velvet canopy of the bed was peppered with holes and coated in dust. But it still held an air of sanctity and whispers of grandeur.

The doors to the balcony had been left open by the last visitor, the tattered curtains flowing like strands of spider silk. Imtura crossed onto the balcony, which served as yet another shrine. Shells, broken bits of coral, and even small pieces of ships—the knob of a wheel, a shredded flag—were balanced atop the railing or laid on the ground. But the majority of the offerings made to the Ocean were dropped over the side of the balustrade, right into the sea itself.

Imtura reached into her pockets, fingers scrounging around for anything she could offer up to the elements. All she had was a bit of lint, a few ribbons to tie her off her braids, and that golden doubloon. For a moment, Imtura contemplated flipping the coin over the side of the ship, but sentimentality—and perhaps a bit of child-like hope—had her pocketing the gold piece once more. Instead, Imtura took her ribbons and tied them around the wooden posts that upheld the railing.

She watched them flutter in the wind for a moment, taking that as a sign nature had accepted her meager offering, and was about to turn when a voice behind her spoke up.

“The tavern wasn’t fun enough, for you?”

Imtura half-turned, bracing her hand against the wooden banister. A single sand dollar was nudged out of the way by her fingers and fell into the gentle waves with a  _ plunk! _

“Morrigan.” Imtura relaxed slightly, dropping the hand that had instinctively moved to hover over one of her axes. “Like sneaking up on me, do you?”

Morrigan shook her head. “I wasn’t trying to sneak up on you. You were just…” she shrugged, her gaze roaming over Imtura’s head. “Deep into your own thoughts, I suppose. What is this place?” she asked, looking around the captain’s cabin with an unreadable expression. “It’s…”

Imtura half-expected her to say “old” or “a wreck” or perhaps “a rotting shithole” and frankly, she would have been right to do so. 

But instead, Morrigan said, “Incredible.”

Imtura let out a little breath, lips easing into a casual smile. “Isn’t it? This is where we orcs sometimes come to give up offerings to the elements. There’s no other place in Flotilla like it.”

“Give up offerings?” Morrigan asked, joining Imtura on the balcony. She tucked her wings in tight behind her, taking care to avoid knocking over any of the items strewn about. “Is that what you were doing just now? Making an offering?”

“Yeah,” Imtura shrugged, glancing down at the ribbons that danced in the breeze. “S’pose so.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type,” Morrigan noted although there was no judgment or accusation in her voice. 

“I’m not, really,” Imtura admitted, tapping her fingers against the railing. “At least not in the way that the humans, elves, and your folk are. I didn’t even believe in the gods until recently.” She turned away, fixing her attention on the slivers of the dark horizon that were visible in between other ships and bobbing structures. “We orcs don’t have temples or priests or anything like that. These offerings… they’re just meant to give back to what made us. The elements. And maybe get a little good luck along the way.”

“Good luck?” Morrigan asked, lifting a coppery brow. In the moonlight, the freckles that splashed across her cheeks looked like little stars. She smiled slightly, nudging Imtura’s elbow with her own. “What does a fearsome orc captain like you need luck for?”

Imtura huffed through her nose. “Meet my mother and then you’ll understand.”

Morrigan raised her eyebrows at Imtura for a moment, then nodded. “Ah. So, it’s like that,” she mused aloud. “You think you’ll have difficulty convincing your mother to send the fleet to Morella’s aid.”

“Without question,” Imtura replied. “She harbors no love for human kings. And as far as she’s concerned, the elves can go right on ahead and isolate themselves into extinction.”

“Harsh,” Morrigan muttered and Imtura shrugged.

“Sometimes, I can’t blame her,” she confessed, nudging aside a few offerings to brace her forearms on the railing. “I don’t agree with her, but… There was a time when my people were thought of as the scum of Morella. By some people, we still are. That’s why you’ll never find an orc east of Port Parnassus. Not just because we can’t live without the sea, but because no town would ever have us.”

Imtura laughed, the sound more harsh and bitter than she had intended it to be. “‘We lay no roots,’” she stated, shaking her head. “That’s our motto. It’s what my people have lived by ever since we lost Kell D’hana. My ancestors promised to never settle, to always seek adventure, and to chase the thrill of conquest. But look at Flotilla. A bunch of stationary ships and floating buildings.”

“By your principles, Flotilla should not exist,” Morrigan said slowly, picking up on Imtura’s line of thought.

“Exactly.” Imtura nodded, sighing heavily. “If you ask me, the reason we’re so proud to be a seafaring race is because it goes against the one thing we want but can’t have.”

“And what’s that?”

“A home,” Imtura stated somberly. “Not just Flotilla, but a  _ real _ home. A place to belong. One that won’t go up in flames if a single lantern drops.”

She’d never spoken about this before, to anyone. In fact, she rarely ever gave these thoughts any time, for just thinking them felt almost treasonous. Even when she reminisced with the party, she usually only told them about how much she missed sailing and her crew. They’d always understood. But maybe that was why it was easier to talk to Morrigan. Because Morrigan  _ didn’t _ understand. She didn’t know the orcs like Morellians did, didn’t know what they were and weren’t supposed to be.

“It’s all material, though,” Imtura added, feeling a bit of warmth rush to her cheeks at her confession, the uncomfortable sense of vulnerability she now felt. “I know that as long as I’ve got my crew and my freedom, I’ll be alright. ‘Home is where the heart is’ and all that.”

“Are you trying to make me believe that or are you trying to convince yourself?”

Imtura let out a startled huff, surprised—and a little impressed—by Morrigan’s bluntness. “You’re nosy aren’t you?”

Morrigan shrugged, shaking her head. “You sound like you have some stuff you’ve got to work through. I’m just trying to help you figure out what that is.”

Imtura eyed the other woman cautiously. Morrigan was fun. Fun to flirt with, fun to banter with, and Imtura was certain that there was a great deal of other kinds of fun they could get up to together. But now, Imtura began to wonder if whatever flirtation they had between them could ever be more than  _ just _ fun.

She could stand to find out.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” she confessed softly, tugging at the ends of her hair. “But I feel like there’s a part of me missing. Like I’m searching for a place I’ve never been, a place that I’ve never seen. But deep down, I know it and it knows me. Even though we have never met.”

“A home,” Morrigan said, her voice equally soft.

Imtura nodded, trying not to shy away from Morrigan’s green gaze. “Yeah.”

“Do you think a place like that exists out there?” Morrigan asked.

“I don’t know that, either,” Imtura admitted. She supposed that for an adventurer, there was a lot about the world she did not know. “Maybe. I once…” She shook her head, turning her gaze to stare into the depths of the sea below them, the dark waves reflecting the silver moonlight. “I once knew a woman who planned to find out. I’ll never know if she did.”

“Well, just so you know…” Morrigan said after a few moments had passed in silence. “Whether a place like that exists or not, if you ever decide to quit swashbuckling and settle down, the Aerie would gladly have you.”

Imtura smiled at that, leaning her weight on one elbow as she looked over at Morrigan. “Well, just so  _ you  _ know… You’ll always have a place at my hearth. And on my ship.” Then she winked and added, “In case you ever find a storm you can’t handle.”

Morrigan grinned, shifting a little closer. “I’ve been told that the captain’s quarters are the warmest place on the  _ Wraith.  _ Is that true?”

“I’d say so,” Imtura replied, pushing away from the railing to take a step toward Morrigan. She reached out, fingers brushing aside a coppery strand of Morrigan’s unbound hair from her cheek. It was so rare that the Avian woman wore it outside of a plait, and Imtura was possessed by the sudden urge to run her hands through it. “But you are welcome to find out for yourself any time.”

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer,” Morrigan whispered, her cheeks rounding against Imtura’s fingertips as she smiled and began to lean in.

“As you should,” Imtura murmured, sliding her hand from Morrigan’s cheek to the back of her neck as she closed her eyes. She felt Morrigan’s breath on her skin and thought faintly that she smelled like a storm, wild and reckless. Imtura wondered if she tasted like one, too.

“Captain?” 

_ Sunken hells. _

Stifling a groan, Imtura turned away, prepared to bite the head off of whoever just interrupted them. But when she saw her quartermaster, Kraglin, standing in the captain’s quarters of the  _ Sea Nymph,  _ his face uncharacteristically sober, she stiffened. She knew why he had come.

Kraglin nodded, catching the look of understanding that crossed Imtura’s face.

“It’s time.”

* * *

Imtura stood at attention at the center of her mother’s throne room, located in a vast wooden complex at the heart of the floating city, her back rigid and hands clenched together before her abdomen. She had never been so still, so carefully composed in this room. Or anywhere, really.

The throne room was as formidable and imposing as ever, the walls decorated with banners, shields, weapons, and shark skulls—testaments to the orc’s might, and more specifically,  _ Ventra Tal Kaelen’s _ might. It was familiar, and oddly enough, cozy. But even with the cloistering heat of the braziers that burned around her, Imtura only felt the cold touch of dread, icier than the frozen depths of the Cartesian Sea.

She still remembered the day she had finally been brought to Flotilla, a few months after Ventra had unified the Clans. Imtura had been overjoyed, then, to see her mother after such a long time apart. But she had no idea how much freedom she was giving up by coming to the capital, had no idea that the wild life she’d led on the seas with the rest of the Minurva Clan would forever be left behind.

Ventra’s hand-carved wooden throne sat empty atop the dais, the seat of power left unoccupied as Imtura, a few members of her crew, and Morrigan waited for her arrival. Imtura had naively thought that when her mother’s guard told Kraglin—who then told Imtura—that she was back and ready to have her audience, Ventra would already be here, waiting with that patronizing grin and an entire slew of belittling comments about her daughter’s life choices.

But she wasn’t.  _ Of course, _ she wasn’t. No, that would have been too simple, and Imtura knew that nothing about her interactions with her mother had ever been simple. 

This had to be some sort of tactic of her mother’s, a scheme meant to intimidate her as she waited, just as it had been with the Khagan. 

Imtura hated to admit that it might have been effective.

Just when Imtura’s restlessness was starting to get to her and she seriously began to contemplate taking one of her hand axes and her Vishanti war hammer to Ventra’s throne, the doors to the throne room swung open. But it was not Imtura’s mother that strode through.

“Vinestra’s great tits,” Kraglin swore beneath his breath. “What are  _ they _ doing here?”

Imtura sucked in a sharp breath as the matriarchs from each of the twelve orc fleets streamed into the room and began to take their places, six women on each side of Ventra’s throne. Together, the twelve matriarchs—or technically,  _ eleven _ matriarchs and one representative for the Kintari Clan, which was entirely democratic—made up Ventra Tal Kaelen’s council. They were her advisors, her enforcers amongst the Clans, although everyone knew that Ventra’s power was, ultimately, absolute.

But the matriarchs of the clans did not live in Flotilla—not permanently, at least. Typically, they spent their time on their own ships, pirating and plundering as all orcs did. Occasionally, Ventra would call upon one or two matriarchs at a time for advice or to deliver a decree. But for  _ all  _ of the matriarchs to be assembled here today… That meant Ventra had to be planning something big. 

At last, Ventra entered the throne room, not even sparing Imtura and her entourage a single glance until she had seated herself upon her throne. Imtura noticed that her mother was dressed in the thick, fur-lined leathers she typically wore while sailing, and shoulder plates were visible beneath her fur cloak. Her long, silver hair shone faintly with sea spray. So she really  _ had _ just returned to the capital. 

“Well now,” Ventra said, a small smile curving her lips. “What have we here?”

“Mother,” Imtura began, stepping forward. “I need to—”

“Ah, Immy. Back in Flotilla,” Ventra crooned, ignoring her daughter’s statement. “And you didn’t even try to hide this time!” She tutted mockingly, shaking her head. “Were you hoping for a hero’s welcome? I heard you’ve gotten quite a bit of attention on the mainland, now that you’ve saved that wretched kingdom  _ again.” _

“It is  _ our _ kingdom, too, Mother,” Imtura protested, unfolding her hands and lifting them in supplication. “We need to—”

_ “Not yet, _ it isn’t,” Ventra remarked and Imtura felt her stomach drop at the coldness in her mother’s voice, the sharp glint in her golden eyes. 

_ What is she planning?  _ Imtura wondered anxiously.  _ And why are  _ they _ here? _

Before Imtura could reply, Ventra’s attention snapped to Imtura’s crew, who she barely gave a second to, then to Morrigan. “And you.” She narrowed her eyes, leaning back in her throne. “I don’t even know what to make of  _ you.” _

Imtura swallowed, meeting Morrigan’s eyes for a second. “Mother, this is Morriga—”

“Is she mute?” Ventra demanded swiftly, to which Imtura sputtered to a halt.

“Is she—what?” she questioned, at a loss.

“I  _ said _ , ‘Is she mute?’” Ventra repeated. “Can your winged companion speak or must you do all the talking for her?”

Imtura’s hands fell to her sides and curled into fists. “No.”

“Then let’s hear her speak for herself,” Ventra said coldly and Imtura resisted the urge to glare back at her. Instead, Imtura sent Morrigan an apologetic look.

But Morrigan did not see it. She stepped forward, her spine straight and her head held high. “My name is Morrigan Dane, Your Majesty,” she answered cooly, meeting Ventra’s icy gaze with a steely look of her own. “Of the Avian Kingdom.”

Ventra’s eyes widened ever so slightly, the only indication she would ever give of her surprise. “You are a long way from home, then, little bird.”

Morrigan’s eyes narrowed by a fraction at the moniker. As far as Imtura knew, she’d only ever heard Killian call Morrigan by that name. Even she had not thought it appropriate to use it.

“Indeed,” Morrigan said. “The Avian Kingdom has allied itself with King Aerin. I am here on his behalf as well as that of my people.”

“Ah, yes,” Ventra mused, cupping her chin in her palm. “I’ve heard of your alliance for your little war with the Empire. I thought they were just rumors. I thought it was impossible that a kingdom of bird people could truly be anything more than a work of fiction, almost as impossible as the rumor that the people of Morella now had a bloodthirsty tyrant for a king.”

Imtura’s face drew into a fierce scowl. Aerin had protected her, had saved her life several times when the easiest thing to do was to let her die. She would not let her mother drag his name through the dirt like this. “Aerin isn’t—”

“Although I suppose that is better than his weak old fool of a father,” Ventra continued, waving her hand. “He may be an interesting opponent.”

_ Opponent? _

Imtura shook her head, taking another step toward her mother’s dais. “So you’ve heard of the war. I’ve come here to discuss—”

“Our people’s relationship with the Blood King of Morella?” Ventra questioned and Imtura seethed. Would her mother let her finish a damn sentence  _ for once? _ But her anger faded into dread as her mother waved her hand toward the matriarchs. “So have they.”

Imtura gazed at the representatives of the orc fleets. Some of the matriarchs were new, recently instated due to either the death or resignation of their predecessor. But there were a few familiar faces. She saw Edda of Clan Marlenos, Sorrel of the Arrazi, Vesta of the Redfashti, Asterin of the Taldaro, and finally, Petrah of Clan Minurva, Imtura’s cousin.

Imtura did not know what to make of the scene before her, so she only inquired, “…Mother?”

Ventra’s smile broadened. “Allow me to clarify. You have come here to ask me to ally with the Crown. I have asked them here to discuss  _ attacking _ it.”

Imtura’s mouth fell open. Behind her, Morrigan blanched and Kraglin swore beneath his breath. Imtura shook her head vehemently. “Mother, you can’t!”

“And why can’t I?” Ventra replied flatly. “The kingdom is vulnerable right now. The people do not yet trust their king. Many fear him. It is the perfect time to stage a coup.”

“Mother, I am  _ begging  _ you, do not do this,” Imtura pleaded, abandoning any semblance of poise and approaching her mother’s throne. “Do not attack Whitetower. Please.”

“You would rather I help them?” Ventra demanded, her cool exterior finally cracking to reveal the scorn that laid beneath. “That I lead our fleet to aid the people who discard us, who look down on us, who call us uncivilized brutes? The people who granted autonomy to the elves for whom they were once no better than slaves but will not grant us the same right?”

Imtura shook her head, taking a single step up the dais to her mother. “I understand that they have wronged us,” she conceded, holding up her hands. “King Arlan wronged  _ you. _ You have every right to despise the humans for that, but do not make the entire realm pay for that.”

“The rest of the realm is not my concern,  _ Immy,” _ Ventra sneered. “Our people are. You should remember that. And I will not waste my time or their blood in fighting for people who see us as animals.”

“They don’t!” Imtura protested.

“They  _ do,” _ Ventra snarled, getting to her feet. She towered over Imtura, golden eyes ablaze with fury. “You think that because your ragtag little band of misfits doesn’t care about what you are that the rest of the kingdom will do the same.”

Unbidden, Imtura’s mind threw out the memory of the night she, Iliana, and Nia had ventured into Whitetower’s night market. Imtura remembered vividly the way those noble women had stared at her, appalled as she tried on a silk dress.

_ No, you belong in that backwater little slum you came from. So why don’t you head back and take your stench with you? _

Imtura shook her head, taking an uneasy step back. “It doesn’t matter. None of that matters.”

“It is the  _ only _ thing that matters,” Ventra snapped. “I know you have seen their cruelty. I can see it on your face. I will not lead the fleets to help those that have shamed my own blood.”

“Then let  _ me  _ lead them,” Imtura blurted before she could stop herself. “You wanted an heir, Mother. Now you have one.” 

Behind her, Kraglin made a noise of protest. “Captain—”

“I am giving it up. The freedom. The high seas. Being a pirate.” Imtura threw up her hands in resignation, her chest tightening with every word she spoke. She could feel the weight of the walls around her pressing in like a cage. Even the leather cuffs she wore on her forearms began to feel like shackles. “Teach me the ways of the crown. If you want me to read books, I’ll read them. If you want me to give up my ship, it’s yours. But I need the fleet.”

Ventra stared at her daughter for a long time, leaving them in a tense silence that was broken only by the flames that crackled in the braziers. After a long while, she sighed heavily and sat down on her throne, shaking her head. When she spoke, she sounded weary. Resigned. Disappointed. “I always wanted you to take my place, Immy. But not for this. I will not give you my fleet.”

Imtura felt like she could not breathe. This was not the way this was supposed to go. She was supposed to get her mother’s aid, secure the fleet. It was the one task Aerin had given her, the one request he had asked of her, not as Morella’s king but as  _ her  _ friend. 

_ I cannot fail. _

Imtura had come prepared to give up her freedom, to give up her life upon the  _ Wraith _ to become the heir her mother wanted. She had offered all of that up and it still had not been enough. A part of her ought to have been relieved by her mother’s refusal—for now, she was still captain—but instead, she only felt anguish. Not only had she not succeeded in obtaining her mother’s aid, but she now learned that Ventra planned to attack the Valleros regime.

Imtura tore her attention away from her mother, crestfallen, and stepped back. Her gaze slid over the twelve matriarchs, taking in their expressions, which ranged from intrigued, to disapproving, to irritated. Only one leader looked sympathetic. Petrah. Another Tal Kaelen. 

Imtura looked at her cousin, the current leader of Clan Minurva, who she had not seen in nearly a decade, and formed an idea.

_ I will not fail. _

“I’m not asking you to give it to me, Mother,” Imtura declared, tearing her gaze from Petrah’s and straightening to her full height. She lifted her chin and stared unfalteringly into her mother’s amber eyes. “I am going to  _ take  _ it. I will take the fleet  _ and _ your throne.”

Ventra stared at Imtura again, her brows lifted. For a moment, Imtura was certain that she had stunned her mother into speechlessness, that at any moment now, her mother would berate her for her impudence, for having the gall threaten Ventra’s position. But then—

Ventra tilted her head back and laughed. Laughed and laughed until her eyes began to water. Hesitantly, and then more boisterously, the other matriarchs joined in. 

“Oh,  _ Immy, _ ” her mother gasped around her laughter. She shook her head, smiling down at her daughter as if she were a small and pitiable pup. 

“You cannot be serious. How exactly do you plan to do that?” she questioned. “Take all twelve trials of leadership? Oh, Immy. Immy, Immy, Immy,” Ventra tsked, wiping at her eyes. “You have grown into an even bigger fool than you were the last time I saw you. Let me put this clearly:  _ You are not strong enough. _ You are not  _ ready.  _ For the trials, and for the throne. If you try to take those tests, you will fail. And you will only succeed in humiliating yourself.”

Imtura felt her face burn with embarrassment but she shoved that feeling down, tempering it into something more lethal. Fury.

How  _ dare _ she? How  _ dare _ her mother speak to her like this?

Ventra may have had a point about the trials being a hopeless endeavor. For one thing, it would take far too much time. For another, winning all of the trials would be impossible for  _ anyone _ to do, truly. Ventra may have done it but Imtura knew that her mother had also  _ cheated. _

But perhaps Imtura did not need to take all of the trials. Perhaps she only needed one.

Imtura raised her voice, her words carrying over the laughter and wheezing gasps for air. “As a born member of Clan Minurva, I invoke the Minurva trial of leadership.”

Immediately, the laughter quieted. In the silence, there was only the crackle of the fire, the groan of the wooden beams above them, and the distant whisper of the waves lapping against the building’s exterior. 

Each of the orc Clans had their own test of leadership. The Marlenos Clan determined it through a contest of strength, the Redfashti left it to the elements, and the Kintari made all decisions with a vote. But the dominant Minurva Clan determined their leader through a fight. To submission, or to death.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Petrah Tal Kaelen’s golden eyes widen, but it was not her cousin she was challenging.

“I invoke the Minurva trial of leadership,” Imtura repeated, her voice shattering the silence. “Not against Petrah Tal Kaelen, matriarch of Clan Minurva. But against Ventra Tal Kaelen, Queen of Flotilla. For the united fleets.”

Ventra’s eyes narrowed as she let out a brittle scoff. “That is not how this works, Immy.”

“No,” Imtura conceded, resting a hand atop the handle of one of her axes. “But you are Queen and your rule is absolute. You can  _ make it work,” _ she stated, her voice deepening to a growl. “I challenge you. Do you accept?”

Ventra glared at her daughter, then, without breaking Imtura’s gaze, she stood and unfastened her cloak, dropping it onto her throne as if she were merely saving her seat at a tavern. She reached behind her and lifted a spear that was mounted on the wall, slamming the butt of it against the ground.

“Yes,” the Queen announced, striding down the stairs to meet her daughter at the center of the room. “I accept.”

The silence was nearly deafening as Imtura stared back at her mother and unhooked her hand axes, dropping the Vishanti war hammer on the ground with a thud. Fancy as that hammer was, her axes had gotten her through more battles than she could count.

Imtura heard a floorboard creak behind her as Morrigan said, “Imtura, are you sure—”

“Let her do this,” Kraglin whispered, pulling the Avian woman back. “You have to let her do this. It is custom that once a test of leadership has been invoked and accepted, it cannot be undone.”

“But—”

Imtura ignored them, focusing solely on her mother. “Set the terms.”

“They are as they have always been,” Ventra stated. “No shields. No new weapons. We fight until one contender submits.”

“Or they die,” Imtura added and Ventra’s eyes narrowed to slivers. 

She nodded stiffly. “Or they die.”

Imtura turned to Petrah, recalling all of the information she had grown up with and reviewed on the voyage to Flotilla. “Matriarch of Clan Minurva, do you sanction this test?”

Petrah’s expression was unreadable, as she studied Imtura for a moment, then nodded. “I do.”

Good. Now that the formalities were out of the way… 

Imtura turned and hurled an axe at her mother.

Her hand axe slammed into a wooden pillar, embedding itself deep in its surface as Ventra narrowly rolled aside, dodging a blow that would have cleaved her chest in two. She lifted her other axe, prepared to bury it in her mother’s shoulder, but Ventra was already moving. The orc queen rolled up to her knees and threw her spear up horizontally to catch Imtura’s strike on the midsection of the shaft, where it had been encased in reinforced steel.

Imtura grunted as her axe glanced off the shaft of the spear, metal screeching against metal. She had never seen her mother fight, not like this. Even when they had dueled that one time, years ago, after Imtura told her she would never lead the united fleet, the fight had been swift and the defeat thorough. In reality, that had not been so much of a duel as it was a beating. 

But beyond that, Imtura had never seen her mother fight like this. To the death. In fact, it had not even been Ventra who taught her Kaytar, but another member of the Minurva Clan.

A distant part of Imtura wondered if that was merely an unfortunate happenstance caused by Ventra’s dedication to her vision or if it had been intentional. If the Queen of Flotilla had not wanted her to know just how skilled she was.

As Imtura dodged and did her best to knock aside her mother’s quick thrusts of the spear, it gradually sank in that  _ this _ was Ventra Tal Kaelen, former matriarch of Clan Minurva, Queen of Flotilla, and great unifier of the orc fleets. In the midst of all of the insulting and ordering and arguing, Imtura had lost sight of who her mother truly was, not just to her, but to the rest of the world.

Ventra Tal Kaelen the mother was callous and snide and overall awful. But Ventra Tal Kaelen the warrior was much, much worse.

Imtura could barely move fast enough to keep up with Ventra’s swift attacks. The point of her mother’s spear bit into Imtura’s bicep and she cried out, barely switching her axe to her other hand before she could drop it in surprise.

Ventra withdrew and lunged again, but this time, Imtura blocked the blow with the flat of her axe and slammed her knuckles into the side of the shaft, knocking the weapon away as she spun out of reach. Grimacing, Imtura rolled the shoulder of her injured arm, forcing herself to operate through the pain, even as she felt blood trickle down her fingers.

“So  _ this  _ is my daughter,” Ventra taunted, as she surveyed Imtura, her breaths coming in small pants through her tusk-like teeth. “ _ This _ is my legacy.  _ Captain _ Tal Kaelen of the  _ Wraith.”  _ She huffed. “I’m unimpressed.”

Imtura growled. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Ventra narrowed her eyes and held her arms out to the side, baring her torso in challenge. “Show your teeth, girl.”

Imtura eyed her mother and the obvious trap she laid, an insult meant to wound her pride. Perhaps if she had been younger and more eager to prove herself, it might have worked. But now, Imtura had a goal—a purpose—and her loyalty was stronger than her pride.

Imtura’s gaze flicked from Ventra to a spot over her shoulder, and then back again. Imtura narrowed her eyes, dropped low into Zephyr stance—limbs loosening and spine lengthening—and charged her mother. Ventra twisted her feet, strengthening her stance to withstand the brunt of Imtura’s force when she inevitably shifted into Boulder form, but at the last moment, Imtura veered to the side and rolled beneath her mother’s spear.

She popped up to her feet behind her mother and raced toward the pillar her axe had gotten lodged in earlier. Imtura hooked the other one onto her belt, then gripped the one embedded in the wooden pillar with both hands and heaved with all of her might. 

It took two tries and bracing her foot against the pillar before Imtura finally dislodged her axe just in time to catch her mother’s fist in her face. Imtura’s head snapped back, stars exploding across her vision as her left eye throbbed in pain. She reached out, almost blindly gripping Ventra’s shoulders as she reared back and slammed the crown of her head into her mother’s face.

Ventra yelped in surprise and pain as she staggered back, blood streaming from her nose. Already, Imtura could feel her eye swell shut and a dull ache spread throughout her entire head—her whole body, really.

Imtura hefted up both of her axes, spinning them once in unison as her mother lunged forward, spear raised to strike.

Ventra thrusted the spearhead toward Imtura’s shoulder, but Imtura dodged to the side, bringing both of her axes high overhead. She swung down with all of her might, bringing the twin blades down atop the center of her mother’s spear shaft.

With a loud  _ CRACK!  _ the spear snapped in half and Imtura stepped into her mother’s guard to strike again.

She realized her mistake too late. Later, Imtura could not say if it was a trap or not—if her mother sacrificed the integrity of her weapon just to bait her—but whatever Ventra’s plan was, it worked. 

Ventra shifted to face Imtura, just as she flipped the tipped end of her spear in her palm and jabbed it straight into Imtura’s stomach.

Imtura’s eyes went wide with shock and she gasped, her knees slackening beneath her as Ventra yanked the spear back.

_ “No!”  _ someone screamed although Imtura could not tell who it was—Morrigan, Kraglin, or even, for some reason, Petrah.

Imtura coughed, already tasting copper on her tongue as she dropped one of her axes and pressed her hand against the gaping wound in her abdomen, making sure her insides stayed  _ in. _ Blood, hot and sticky, dribbled over and around her fingertips, dripping onto the floorboards as Imtura sank to the ground.

Her mother stood over her and tossed the useless end of her spear aside as she demanded, “Yield.”

Imtura shook her head, planting the top of her axe against the floor and using it to shove herself to stand. “No.”

She barely got to a low crouch before she faltered, knees slamming into the ground once more. A low groan of pain left her lips, so low and visceral, she did not even comprehend that it belonged to her.

Ventra lifted what remained of her spear, holding it over Imtura’s head.  _ “Yield,  _ Imtura.”

Imtura spat blood onto the ground, tightening her hold on her axe handle as she glared up at her mother. “I will not!”

Ventra’s eyes narrowed and she reached out to grab Imtura’s hair, gripping it so tightly, Imtura gasped, her eyes watering.  _ “Yield!” _

Her fingers, slick with blood, lost their hold on the axe.

Imtura gritted her teeth against the pain in her stomach, the pain that was everywhere.  _ “Never.” _

For a moment, Ventra faltered, taken aback by her daughter’s ferocity. Then, she clenched her jaw and hefted up the spear. Her lip trembled as she said, “You did this to yourself.”

The spear in her hand wavered, then dipped—

Before Ventra could decide whether or not to deliver the killing blow, Imtura’s war hammer slammed into the tip of the spear, snapping it off the broken shaft in a spray of splinters.

Imtura looked up, barely able to see through one of her blackened eyes as Kraglin lunged forward, barreling his shoulder into the Queen’s chest.

“No!” Imtura yelled but her protests were lost in the blood that gurgled in her throat.

All hell broke loose. 

As Kraglin hurled Ventra into a wooden pillar, the wood groaning with the impact, the matriarchs of the twelve clans descended, plucking weapons and shields off the walls as the present members of Imtura’s own crew rushed forward to meet them.

“No!” Imtura yelled again, reaching out a helpless hand to order her crew to stand down—this wasn’t their fight, she couldn’t let them get hurt on her behalf, could not let them make themselves enemies of the twelve clans—but no one listened.

Orcs streamed around her, yelling in rage and defense as a duel between mother and daughter broke out into an entire battle. Behind her, Imtura heard a loud cracking noise and angled her neck to see her Ventra and Kraglin—her mother and her quartermaster—go barreling into the Queen’s throne, which soon lay in a pile of broken wood.

“Human-lover,” someone spat and Imtura looked up in time to see the representative of the Kintari Clan loom over her, a polearm clutched in her grasp. 

Imtura’s bloody fingers scrambled across the planks as she blindly sought out the handle of her axe and faced the representative with a sneer, snarling something low and horribly vicious that made the other woman’s face go nearly purple with anger.

“You will die like the rest of those scum!” the representative promised as she swung the polearm down like a scythe.

But the blow never landed.

Another axe caught it, stopping the polearm’s blade inches from Imtura’s chest.

Imtura’s gaze wandered up the blade of that axe, to the handle, to the arm that gripped it, and finally to the person who wielded it.

Her voice was a shaky rasp, blood dribbling down her chin.  _ “Petrah.” _

“Go,” her cousin ordered, shoving the Kintari representative back. “I will find you later.”

Imtura could only gape at Petrah. The last time she had seen her cousin, they had barely been thirteen, raised together on the… the… 

_ Sunken hells,  _ what was the ship’s name? Imtura could not recall it, the Minurva ship on which she had been hidden and taken care of while her mother was gone. It had such a funny name… 

“Are you deaf?” Petrah snapped, looking over her shoulder at Imtura as she battled the Kintari orc. When had they started fighting? “I told you to go! If you want your fleet, you need to leave.  _ Now!” _

“Petrah,” Imtura rasped, but whatever she was going to say—she wasn’t entirely sure she really had anything to say—was abruptly cut off as a pair of arms looped beneath her armpits and she was hoisted off the ground.

“She’s right,” Morrigan breathed into her ear, her arms warm and steady around Imtura. “We need to get you out of here. Now.”

“But my crew—”

“They’ll be right behind us,” Morrigan assured her, taking a half step back. She waved toward the doors that led out of the throne room, Imtura’s axes clutched in her hands. “Can you walk on your own?”

Imtura nodded. “Of course—"

Imtura took one step forward and swayed, her legs threatening to give out beneath her. 

“Alright, no you can’t,” Morrigan muttered, taking Imtura’s arm and looping it around the back of her neck. “I can’t carry you because someone’s gotta fight but I’ll do what I can to help you. Just focus on keeping your stomach inside your body and not passing out. I’ll take care of you when we get back to the ship, alright?”

“Alright.” Imtura bobbed her head in understanding but the movement felt weightless and sluggish. Already, she could sense the darkness creeping in her vision and beyond the agonizing pain, her body was starting to feel cold.

Without another word, Morrigan started to drag her toward the exit, using Imtura’s axes and her powerful wings to beat back Ventra’s guards as she did. Members of Imtura’s crew peeled away from the fight, regrouping around her and Morrigan to provide coverage as they fled the Queen’s compound and emerged into the darkness of the night.

“Kraglin,” Imtura rasped as they hurriedly hobbled down the maze of floating walkways back to where the  _ Wraith  _ was docked. “Marglin. Iskra.”

“They’re coming,” Morrigan assured her, glancing over her shoulder. “They’re coming.”

Imtura knew that her ship was only a short walk away from her mother’s compound, but the trek felt like it lasted an eternity. She gasped and spluttered, her mind wavering in and out of consciousness as her head grew fuzzy with pain. It took every bit of strength she had to command her legs to keep moving. Every bounding step she and Morrigan took down the docks made Imtura feel as if she was about to spill her innards any second now.

“My mother,” Imtura murmured almost drunkenly, “tried to kill me.”

“Your mother can go right to hell,” Morrigan muttered as she hauled Imtura up the gangway, finally tucking away her hand axes and hefting the captain into her arms like she was no more than a sack of flour.

“Mm,” Imtura hummed in agreement, her eyelashes fluttering as she saw the sky, speckled with stars, then the familiar rigging and flags of her ship. She grunted in pain, holding both hands over her bleeding abdomen.

“Raise anchor!” someone yelled as the  _ Wraith _ sparked to life, members of Imtura’s crew swarming from below deck.

_ Kraglin.  _ That was who was bellowing orders. He made it out alright.

Imtura could only hope the others could stay the same.

“Petrah,” Imtura stated, confused, her head lolling from side to side as Morrigan bounded down the stairs to Imtura’s cabin.

“She’ll find us later,” Morrigan told her, winded and clearly distracted.

“She’s… my cousin,” Imtura informed her drowsily.

Morrigan paused at the doorway to the captain’s quarters. “That’s…” She used her elbow to open the door. “That’s great.”

Imtura only sighed heavily in response, the pain in her stomach making it nearly impossible to speak. Morrigan laid her down on her bed, then rummaged about the room in search of her supply bag.

“Just sit tight and try not to bleed everywhere,” Morrigan instructed her as she knelt by the bed and began to pull out various jars of dried herbs and powders. “I’ll get you fixed up.”

Imtura tried to nod, but at this point, she couldn’t feel anything but a dreadful cold and a dull ache of distant pain. 

“The  _ Seamen’s Revenge, _ ” Imtura chuckled to herself as she felt her mind drift away and unconsciousness crept in. “ _ That’s _ what it was called.”

“You orcs are the worst,” Morrigan muttered and Imtura felt her lips curve into a smile a split second before her entire body went slack.

And then, there was nothing.


	6. The Reaper Rises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mal ventures into Whitetower's underworld.

Mal Volari stared at the wooden door for a long time, his leather gloves creaking as he curled his hands into fists.

He could hear the rowdy laughter and conversation through the thin walls of the Three of Knives, and a quick glance through the window told him that there was a full house tonight.

Mal took a deep breath, readjusting the hooded cloak that concealed most of his face. This was the last place he wanted to be tonight—it had nothing but bad memories for him. But to that point, he also considered the first twenty years of his life to be a series of one bad memory after another. 

_ Just open the door, Volari, _ he chided himself,  _ and get this over with as soon as possible. Let’s be done with it. _

He huffed, glancing up and down the street behind him before he reached for the door handle, but a passing glance at the window gave him pause.

There, in a booth by the window, he saw a woman with flowing red hair, her back to him. For a moment, the clenched hands at his sides unfurled, fingers twitching as if to reach out.

Nevermind the fact that the shade of this woman’s red hair was a little too dull, more auburn than shiny copper. Nevermind that the woman Mal was looking for— _ hoping for _ —was an entire day’s ride away. Nevermind the fact that she would never stumble across a place like this, not even with him. For a moment, he let himself believe it was her.

_ Nia. _

Mal stood there on the stoop to the tavern, suddenly feeling very,  _ very _ lost.

For a moment, he simply stared at the window, the scene before him fading into muddied shapes and blurs of midnight blue, warm hues of gold, and a shade of red that was not quite right. At the bare impressions, a new memory surfaced—a good one, Mal was glad to say, or at least as good as they came—of another place that was not so different from this one but just different enough for her.

* * *

_ “Oh, I do  _ not  _ like this one,” Nia coughed, hastily setting down the tankard as she stuck her tongue out and grimaced. She made a disgusted sound and shoved the stein away from her. “It tastes like sewer water. And it’s so… dry. How can a drink be dry?” _

_ “You’ve got the tastebuds of a connoisseur,” Mal observed with a grin, pulling Nia’s discarded stein of ale toward him. All around them, the patrons of the Stone’s Throw laughed and drank. Storytellers and bards told tales of the Dreadlord’s defeat, wholly oblivious that two of the story’s heroes were among them, nestled in a small booth at the back of the tavern. _

_ Mal nudged another mug across the table. “Now, try this one.” _

_ Nia gave him a wary glance but indulged him nonetheless, lifting the pint to her lips and taking a cautious sip. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the taste but this time, she managed to get the drink down without gagging. Nia set the tankard on the table and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, peering into the tawny liquid. _

_ “Better?” Mal asked, leaning an elbow on the edge of the table. _

_ “Yes,” Nia replied, pressing her lips together in distaste. “Barely. It still tastes gross. It’s… smoother, though.” _

_ “Right again, Priestess.” Mal grinned, leaning back against the bench as he lifted the first stein and drank. It was just as disgusting as Nia said it was. Mal took three hearty swigs before setting the drink down and sighing contentedly. “I tell you, maybe you’ve got a career in tavern hopping.” _

_ Nia laughed lightly, shaking her head. “I think I’ll pass on that for now.” She folded her hands atop the table, ever the perfect picture of poise. “So. What was in the first cup and what is in this one?” _

_ “What do you mean?” Mal questioned, rapping his knuckles on the wood. “They’re both ale.” _

_ Nia’s brows shot up. “But they taste nothing alike!” _

_ Mal chuckled, shaking his head as he braced his weight on the table. “They’re the same kind of drink, Priestess. The only difference is that one is supposed to be fine, Flotillan ale and the other is just your average, run-of-the-mill ale, made right here in Whitetower. Probably watered down, of course.” _

_ “So this one is the Flotillan ale, right?” Nia asked, lifting up the second stein. _

_ “Nope,” Mal replied, grinning like a cat as Nia’s brows drew together. “That’s the Whitetower ale.” _

_ “But the first one is disgusting!” _

_ “Isn’t it?” Mal chuckled, taking another gulp. Disgusting indeed. “A lesson, Priestess. If anyone ever offers ‘fine ale’ for a higher price, it’s a lie. There’s no such thing as good ale. It’s all shi _ — _ shamefully awful,” he caught himself. It was bad enough that he’d convinced Nia to come out to the tavern with him tonight. He didn’t need to go around teaching her bad words, too.  _

_ “But,” he continued with his usual bravado, “it gets you drunk. If you want a  _ good _ drink, though, you’re better off with wine. Or anything else, really.” _

_ “I see.” Nia nodded slowly, wrapping her hands around the tankard once more. She looked into its golden depths, sighed in resignation, and lifted it to her lips. _

_ “Hold on, Priestess.” Mal reached out, putting his hand on the rim of Nia’s stein and pushing it down to the table. “If you don’t like it, you don’t have to drink it.” _

_ “No, no, it’s okay,” Nia assured him, raising the drink, even as her lips twisted with the memory of its bitter taste. “It’s not so bad! Besides, you already paid for it. It’d be a waste to just let it sit there.” _

_ “Yeah,” Mal said, grabbing something on the bench next to him. “And I also paid for this.”  _

_ He lifted up a goblet filled with white elvish wine, brandishing it like a stolen jewel.  _

_ “Undermount moscato _ — _ your favorite.” He held it out to her. “As a thank you for indulging me in this little lesson. And for coming out with me tonight while Iliana’s gone. I know taverns aren’t your thing.”  _

_ Nia’s eyes widened. “You remembered that? From Port Parnassus?” _

_ “Got the memory of a druffalo,” he replied, tapping his temple. When Nia looked at him blankly, his charming grin faltered a bit. “They, uh, have great memories, apparently.” He shook his head, jutting his chin toward Nia’s stein as he began to pull back. “But if you’d rather have the ale _ —”

_ “No!” Nia yelped, releasing the ale and reaching across the table, just as Mal laughed and leaned away, holding the goblet just out of her grasp. _

_ “Are you sure?” Mal teased, lifting the goblet even higher and batting Nia’s hands away. “I thought you said the ale wasn’t so bad!” _

_ “Well, I lied!” Nia laughed, getting to her feet. “Take your ale back and give me that!” _

_ “You? Lying?” Mal gasped in mock horror. “Oh, Priestess, what have we done to you?” He dropped his arm, hiding the goblet beneath the table. “Actually, I think I ought to keep this for myself. To save your soul while I still can.” _

_ “My soul is just fine, thank you very much!” Nia protested, rounding the table to slide onto the bench beside Mal, reaching across his body for the wine. “Give that here.” _

_ Mal chuckled, his chest heaving with laughter as he continued to lean back in the booth to avoid Nia’s reaching fingers, ignoring her protests and demands. _

_ “You’re such a scoundrel!” she huffed. “If Iliana were here _ — _ ” Nia grabbed Mal’s shoulder and leaned her weight against him to keep him in place as she reached again, finally wrapping her fingers around the stem of the goblet with a victorious, “Aha!” _

_ Mal cleared his throat, drawing Nia’s attention from the wine. “Well, now. This is not how I thought the night would go.” _

_ Nia froze. Then, realizing she had cornered him between the bench and the wall, she hastily scooted away and blushed, her cheeks burning a bright red. She cradled the goblet to her chest, vehemently shaking her head as she stammered, “I didn’t mean to—that wasn’t—” _

_ Mal grinned and sat up straight, sifting one hand through his hair as the other fixed the collar of his shirt. “You sure this was just about the drink? Because if it isn’t _ — _ well, I can’t say I’m exactly surprised. I’ve been told I have a certain skill with the ladies _ —”

_ Nia shook her head at him, her embarrassment rapidly fading as she realized he was just teasing her again. _

_ “You know, if I’d have known you felt this way,” Mal went on. “I would have tempted you with wine sooner!” _

_ Nia’s eyes narrowed, then widened, her lips parting. She sat back, suddenly struck with a new thought. _

_ “Are you… are you flirting with me?” _

_ Mal broke off in his rambling mid-sentence. He looked at Nia, then _ —“ _ Ha! You’re funny, Priestess.” _

_ “I’m serious!” Nia insisted as Mal howled with laughter. “I thought _ — _ don’t boys tease the people they have crushes on?” _

_ “Yeah, when they’re little rugrats who don’t know any better, Nia. They throw toys at them, too.” Mal laughed, shaking his head as if she had just told the realm’s funniest joke. “Gods, what ever gave you the idea that I’m flirting with you?” _

_ Nia frowned at him. “Alright, you don’t have to be mean about it. I get it.” _

_ “What?” That stopped Mal cold. He froze, taking in Nia’s put off expression. And then it hit him. “Nia,  _ no.  _ You’ve got the wrong idea.” He dropped the humorous mask and twisted in his seat to fully face her. “Look. Hey. Any man or woman would be lucky to even get the  _ chance _ to flirt with you. _

_ “But you weren’t?” she asked. _

_ Mal resisted the urge to laugh again, just to avoid embarrassing her any further. “No, Priestess, I wasn’t. Trust me, if I was, you’d know.” _

_ Nia shook her head, her eyes fixed pointedly at the table. She sighed, “I’m not entirely sure I would.” _

_ Mal’s brows creased. “What do you mean?” _

_ In an instant, Nia’s skin began to glow anew with another furious blush and Mal almost dropped the topic right then and there just to spare her. She shook her head and mumbled, “No one’s ever really… Some boys I grew up with at the Temple… But I was never interested in any of that at the time.” _

_ Mal nodded slowly. That made sense, he supposed. If a couple of grubby Temple boys were the only ones that had ever tried to garner Nia’s attention, then it wasn’t very surprising that she only knew the most elementary kind of flirting. _

_ For a moment, Mal considered what it  _ would _ be like to flirt with Nia. He wouldn’t tease her, not any more than he already did, at least. And he wouldn’t be overzealous with compliments, either, even though he could admit that it would be fun to make her blush. But the more Mal thought about it, he realized he had no idea how to flirt with Nia. He’d never met anyone like her before. _

_ “Nia,” Mal began, a slow grin spreading across his face that she immediately frowned at. “Do you  _ want  _ me to flirt with you?”  _

_ Nia abruptly straightened as if she had been shocked, the table rattling as she bumped her elbow against the edge. “Do I _ — _ you _ — _ no!” she exclaimed, shaking her head hastily. Flustered, she began to scoot toward the edge of the bench. “I think I’m going to go home now.” _

_ “Oh, hey now,” Mal protested, reaching out to grab her wrist. “Let’s not be hasty. I’m just teasing you again. In the most innocent way possible.”  _

_ Nia frowned at him. _

_ “Alright,” Mal sighed, holding up his hands, palms out, in surrender. “I promise I’ll stop giving you a hard time. I’ll even buy you as much wine as you’d like. Just stay for a little while longer.” _

_ Nia glared at him _ — _ or at least she attempted to. Mal suspected she gave a valiant effort before she smiled softly at him. “All the wine I want?” _

_ Mal groaned, slapping his palm against his forehead. “Oh, I really have ruined you, haven’t I?” _

_ Nia laughed, shaking her head. “No. After this glass, that’s it for me. But you  _ are _ going to buy me some to bring home to Threep.” _

_ Mal rolled his eyes. “Right. Because what that glutton needs is  _ more _ wine.” _

_ Nia hummed in a way that told him she disagreed as she finally picked up her goblet and took a sip of her hard-earned drink. _

_ “You know,” Mal added a few moments later, unable to help himself. He met Nia’s eyes over the rim of her glass. “If you ever  _ did _ want me to flirt with you _ —”

_ Nia groaned, setting the goblet down and wiping her mouth on the back of her hand before promptly hiding her face behind her splayed fingers. “I thought we were done with this!” _

_ Mal laughed, patting her shoulder. “Just wait, I  _ do _ have a point, for once.” When she lifted her head, raising a suspicious brow at him, he continued on. “I was going to say that if you ever did want me to flirt with you _ — _ well, you shouldn’t. You’re too good for that. Too good for a scoundrel like me.” _

_ Nia frowned. “I don’t think that’s for you to decide.” _

_ Mal opened his mouth to protest, then refrained. “No, you’re right. You’re right. Only you get to decide what to do with your life. Not me, not the Temple. I’m just saying _ — _ ” _

_ “I wasn’t talking about myself, Mal,” Nia stated, folding her hands together atop the table as she studied him. “You don’t get to decide whether or not you’re good enough for someone. That’s not how love works.” _

_ “Yeah?” Mal questioned, his curiosity piqued. “And how does it work, Priestess?” _

_ “Well….” Nia pressed her lips together as she thought. “It’s uncontrollable, right?” she replied, fluttering her fingers in the air between them as she tried to capture the words she needed to describe it. “You can’t force it and you can’t suppress it. It just sort of happens, whether you want it to or not.” _

_ Mal looked at her for a moment, surprised by her sudden frankness. Then, he sat back, drumming his fingers on the table. He blew out a long breath and gave her another look of appraisal. “You know, for someone who’s never been in love, you sound like you know a lot about it.” _

_ It wasn’t meant to be a slight, and Nia, in her endless patience and understanding, did not take it as one. _

_ “I don’t think you need to have been in love to know about it,” she said with a shrug.  _

_ Mal arched a brow, doubtful. “Some people would disagree with you on that.” _

_ “Like you?” Nia returned and when Mal did not reply, she pressed her lips together, carefully studying his expression. “Have you ever been in love, Mal?” _

_ Mal sighed, leaning forward to brace one elbow on the able as he combed his fingers through his hair, slightly uncomfortable with the sudden shift in conversation. How the hells had they gotten here?  _

_ “Once. A long time ago,” he admitted. He shook his head before Nia could ask about it. “But it’s best to leave it in the past. Anyway, I’ll bite,” he said, waving one hand toward her as he used the other to prop up his chin, the perfect picture of an attentive student. “Tell me about love, Priestess.” _

_ Nia looked at him suspiciously, waiting for him to start teasing her again, but when Mal simply watched her quietly, she shrugged. _

_ “Well, loving is the one thing we are born knowing how to do,” Nia began, twining one of her coppery ringlets around her finger and letting it go. “We love our parents before we even know them. I don’t… I don’t really remember mine from the days before the Temple adopted me, but I know I loved them. And I know they loved me. I loved Scholar Vash, too. And I love all of you guys. And Threep.” _

_ “I don’t think it’s that simple, Priestess,” Mal told her, scratching his brow as he mulled all of that over. “I’m not sure loving and being in love are the same thing.” _

_ “I… maybe,” Nia conceded, thoughtfully wringing her hands on the tabletop. “But I still think that you don’t need to have experience to know what’s in your heart. I think that when you’re in love with someone, you simply are. Regardless of whether the other person thinks they are good enough. I don’t think someone could help that, no matter how hard they tried.” _

_ Mal huffed slightly, a small smile forming on his lips. “Careful, Nia. With all this talk about inescapable, powerful feelings, you’re starting to sound like a hopeless romantic.” _

_ Nia blushed again. “Maybe I am.” She shrugged a bit sheepishly, gazing at the swirls in the wooden table for a few, pensive moments before she lifted her gaze to meet Mal’s. “You don’t think it’s like that?” _

_ “I know it isn’t,” he said confidently, shaking his head. “At least not in my experience.” _

_ Nia pressed her lips together. “Then maybe you weren’t really in love.” _

_ Mal opened his mouth to protest, then sighed. “Yeah. Maybe I wasn’t.” _

_ “I think you’d know it if you were,” she said softly, almost wistfully, as she cupped her chin in her palm and gazed around the room. “If you love someone, there would be no doubt about it.” _

_ “That’s a nice idea.” _

_ Nia nodded, her attention roaming across the faces of the tavern patrons, expression thoughtful. Eventually, she shrugged, turning back to face Mal. “But who knows. Perhaps when I do fall in love, I’ll be proven wrong about everything.” Then she added a bit more quietly, “Whenever that will be.” _

_ Mal reached out to rub her back consolingly. “You’ll find it someday, Priestess,” he assured her. “Soon, I’m sure of it. And maybe for you, it will be as brilliant and inescapable as you say.”  _

_ Nia smiled, her honeyed eyes brightening. “Like a fairytale.” _

_ Mal returned her smile with a grin of his own. “Sure thing, Priestess,” he said, pulling his hand away from her back to gesture grandly through the air. “Hells, I’ll even help you. I may not be the most upstanding citizen, but I know a few good eggs. I reckon I could find you someone worthy. When Iliana gets back from her little romp around the kingdom, we’ll make a bachelorette out of you.” _

_ Nia laughed, subconsciously fussing with her hair. “I don’t know whether to be nervous or excited about that.” _

_ “Both, probably,” Mal told her with a shrug. Then, he picked up Nia’s goblet of wine and nudged her hand until she took the stem between her own fingers. Mal lifted his own tankard in a toast. “To finding you a love like those in the fairytales.” _

_ Nia raised her brows at him, her gaze flicking from Mal’s pint to his face. Then she smiled, a certain glint in her eyes, and lifted her glass. “To proving you wrong.”  _

_ Mal tilted his head, huffing through his nose. “What could I be proved wrong about?” _

_ “I think you haven’t been in love yet, Mal Volari,” Nia replied, leaning in. “Not really. I think if you were, you would know for certain. So when  _ you  _ fall in love, maybe you’ll see that I was the one who was right all along.” _

A bold statement, _ Mal thought with some amusement. It wasn’t like Nia to make strong bets like that, but then again, she was always surprising him in some way or another. Tonight, for example, when Mal had knocked on her cottage door to invite her out for a night on the town, just the two of them now that Iliana was away, he’d half expected her to already be asleep, or at least to turn him down. But here they were, nestled in the back corner of the Stone’s Throw, and nothing about their conversation was going as he’d expected it to. _

_ “Alright then,” Mal relented with a grin as he lifted his stein even higher and held Nia’s gaze. “To proving me wrong.” _

***

_ Well, you’ve done it, Nia,  _ Mal thought distractedly as he gazed through the windows of the Three of Knives. _ You proved me wrong. Happy now? _

Someone cleared their throat behind him. “Are you just going to stand there all evening or are you going to go in?”

Mal blinked, shaking himself out of his daze. Two women stood behind him, one with her arms folded and the other with her hands on her hips. Both of their gazes were questioning.

Mal wrapped his fingers around the handle and yanked the door open, stepping back and waving his arm. “After you.”

On the surface, the Three of Knives was a fine establishment, even if its floors were stained with ale and Mal knew for a fact that the owner watered down drinks. People laughed, sang, ate, drank, and danced, and it was rare that any trouble ever romped through the front doors. A bright fire blazed in the hearth, warming the hands of storytellers and listeners alike, and in the back corner, a bard strummed his lute, singing a joyous tale about a man and his gold.

Yes, on the surface, the Three of Knives was a fine place to spend the evening, but beneath it all, Mal knew that the tavern was anything but.

While the two women in front of him split off, one going to secure a table while the other went to the bar, Mal navigated his way to the back of the familiar tavern, toward the hallway that housed the set of stairs that led up to the inn stationed above. A burly man was stationed at the bottom of the stairs, charged with keeping any trouble from reaching the rented rooms above.

The average patron would see the guard’s presence as a testament to the innkeeper’s dedication to protecting their clients, but anyone who’d spent their fair share of time in taverns knew innkeepers didn’t give a damn about such a thing, not in these parts. Anyone who’d heard the whispers that the capital city was not as shiny as it seemed would know what the guard’s station truly meant: they were getting a glimpse at the city’s underworld.

As Mal approached, feeling the weight of the guard’s scrutinizing stare, he resisted the urge to lower his head and tug down his hood, remembering the black mask that concealed the upper half of his face.

Mal had been distinctly uncomfortable when he donned the mask that evening, an action that had once been so familiar to him, a part of his daily routine. Wearing masks was customary among the best, most experienced thieves, who were contracted more frequently. The old thiefmaster, Vaughan, even had one custom-made for Mal when he rose to prominence, swapping out the weathered strip of cloth for a half mask made of ebony and detailed with gold leaf. It was a bit flashy, yes, but… 

_ An investment,  _ the thiefmaster had grumbled when Mal weighed the new mask in his hands.  _ For my investment. _

Mal no longer had that mask. He’d left it behind when he’d left the Guild behind, or at least when he’d  _ thought _ he’d left the Guild behind. The mask he wore now was a simple strip of dark satin Anneith had handed him when he returned from surveillance last night.

Mal tugged off one of his leather gloves as he approached the guard and turned his hand over, revealing the damned tattoo that still marked his wrist. A pair of crossed daggers in a crimson diamond, framed by six drops of blood.

The guard’s eyes widened. He breathed, “Reaper.”

Mal said nothing in response, simply holding the man’s stare until he stepped away from the stairs, glanced around, then pressed the back of his heel to the wooden paneling of the hallway. When he lifted his foot, there was a barely audible  _ click _ and the panel decompressed, swinging open by a fraction on well-oiled hinges.

“May greed do your bidding,” the guard murmured as he curled his fingers around the edge of the wooden panel and pulled it open just enough for Mal to slip through. It was a common phrase among the thieves in the Guild, a way to say “good luck.”

Mal inclined his head and squeezed through the hidden passageway, emerging in a dark stairwell that was lit only by the golden light that streamed through a doorway at the bottom of the stairs. The panel swung shut behind him, sealing out the sound that streamed from the Three of Knives, although a new cacophony rose to meet him from below.

Mal took a deep breath. Now this is where the trouble began.

As Mal descended the staircase, he yanked his glove back on, concealing that blasted marking once more. Once, not long after he’d first left the Guild, he’d contemplated burning the damn thing off, just so he’d never have to see it again. But then he’d figured that doing so was more pain and trouble than it was worth, and a scar would be just as much of an eyesore as the tattoo. 

And, as much as he hated to admit it, the ink had gotten him out of a bind more times than he could count. It seemed that even when he was outside of the Guild, he could still reap its benefits. He reckoned it wasn’t too different from the way Nia had used her former status as a priestess to get Aerin out of Whitetower two months ago. Although whereas Nia wrestled with guilt, Mal only felt shame.

Mal continued down the stairs, leaving the sanctuary of the Three of Knives for what it hid beneath: the Hollows. Mal emerged out of the stairwell and into the hidden tavern, his stomach instinctively tightening warily as his gaze fell across a sea of unfamiliar faces, some masked and some unmasked.

No one turned in his direction but he could feel the weight of all the keen stares that discreetly weighed upon him, evaluating the new blood like sharks in the water.

The Hollows existed in a strange place. It stood on the precipice of two worlds—that of the rich and that of the poor—that had no business intersecting but were, oddly enough, connected  _ by _ business. The Hollows was the place to be if you were looking to make a deal or make some quick cash, and as such, it was filled to the brim with criminals—thieves and mercenaries—but also the wealthy, who were really criminals all the same. 

There were no nobles here. No, they would never be caught dead in such a place. They were born on piles of gold and they died on piles of gold. The money that circulated here was all new, scrounged up through trade, investments, sheer luck, or whatever it was the elite attributed their success to, and it was most certainly stained with blood.

The Hollows was the melding of two worlds, united by coin, and very much reflected that union. While the Three of Knives was cozy and humble, the Hollows bordered on the edge of opulence. Crystal chandeliers were suspended from the ceiling, throwing jagged fractals of light across the sea of hidden faces, and some of the booths were lined in velvet. 

But for every display of elegance, there was one of desperation, of grit. Underlying the aroma of fragrant perfumes was the stench of sweat, ale, and piss. The tables that weren’t reserved for the wealthier clientele were scuffed and stained with something that could have been grease but was most likely blood. And beneath the glittering chandeliers, of course, were the fighting pits. 

There were three of them—two small, satellite pits, designated to settle small squabbles or low-caliber fights, and one central pit where the best, most skilled and most ruthless fighters took on challengers or old rivals. The real money makers. 

Mal kept to himself, making sure his gaze never lingered too long in any one place. In the shadowy alcoves of the Hollows, he saw businessmen making shady deals and mercenaries downing their supper. Every now and then, he would meet the glossy, vacant stare of some wealthy socialite, their minds far gone due to the shimmery gold paint that was smeared across their mouths.  _ Nevermore. _

Mal had never tried the glittery substance, but he’d heard the stories of those who had. Nevermore was a stimulant made of deathsweet, a lethal blooming flower that subjected those who consumed its extract to a euphoric delirium while the poison destroyed their insides. But in small amounts, the deathsweet was survivable, and the delirium was an exhilarating high survivors chased. Hence, the creation of nevermore.

As Mal glided through the crowd, wary of the gazes that slid over him like passing water, he heard the familiar clinking noise of coin being transferred from hand to hand, of bets being made. 

A small, distant part of him—the one that would always be just a little hungry and just a little afraid—itched to slip into the better’s circle— _ It would be so easy! _ —jostle someone’s shoulder— _ Look there, not here. There, not here. _ —reach out a sly hand to catch the coin that was meant for someone else, and slip away with his mark being none the wiser to the gamble they’d just lost. They would never know of their misfortune until the next fight had ended and the results were in, but by then, it would be too late, and Mal would be long gone.

But Mal refrained. He did not need to do that anymore. Steal measly amounts of coin just to get by. Steal to eat, steal for shelter, steal for debts… 

He was not blind. Mal knew he was still a thief—thieving was his bread and butter. It was the skill that landed him back in this hellhole for Aerin and Anneith. He stole necklaces, jewels, artifacts, and just about anything that glittered beneath the sun, but he did it for contracts. For jobs. Not out of desperation. Never again out of desperation.

And when all of this was done… perhaps it would simply be,  _ Never again _ — _ for anything. _

Mal clung to that idea, that shiny, rose-tinted hope, that soon, he would finally leave this life behind—the Hollows, the masks, the deception, and the scheming—for good, this time. He’d gotten out once and he would do it again.

_ This isn’t real, _ he reminded himself.  _ Just another job. _

But with every step Mal took into the depths of the Hollow, every step he took toward that familiar booth in the back, he felt the weight of the underworld bear down on him, threatening to drag him under like quicksand.

This entire ordeal may have been a ruse, a deception made to get Mal where he needed to be. When he finished his job, when he got those allies, he could leave the Reaper in the past where he belonged. But that did not mean whatever trouble he got himself into along the way would not follow.

_ Get in, get out, _ Mal reminded himself, keeping his head down.  _ Get the job done and if it gets too dangerous _ —

If it gets too dangerous, then what?

Mal could hear Anneith’s promise.  _ But if you decide you want out, then we end it. With or without their aid. Aerin gave you his word and I am giving you mine. _

If it got too dangerous, he could cut and run. That was one of the first lessons Mal had ever learned in the Guild—if a job was getting too risky, it was best to cut your losses and get out while you still could. It did not matter how valuable the bounty was, or how angry a contracted client would be with failure. None of that meant anything if you were locked up in a cell, or worse, dead. 

As Mal neared the back of the hidden tavern, he looked up, finally coming within viewing range of the old booth where the Guild’s thiefmaster typically made his deals.

He stopped dead in his tracks, lips twisting into a scowl.  _ No.  _ No.  _ Why? _

Mal could not rein in the grimace that settled over his features as he took in the young, dark-haired man that sat in the booth, his arm thrown casually over the back of the bench. Although a white and gold mask concealed the upper half of his face, Mal still vividly remembered the fox-like features that laid beneath—almond-shaped eyes that glittered like dark gems when he spun carefully crafted lies and bronze skin that glowed in the sunlight during those warm, lazy afternoons, when they lounged on the terracotta rooftops, picking each other’s marks.

_ It’s the three of us. It will always be the three of us,  _ she had teased, lips brushing against his bare shoulder.

Mal was seriously contemplating turning around and damning this entire plan to hell when the man’s gaze—which had been meandering around the room—met his. The man’s lips spread into a slow, honeyed grin and he stood, fluid and graceful. “Reaper.”

Mal’s feet carried him the rest of the way to the booth, where he ignored the man’s outstretched hand, snuffing the genial greeting, and he ground out, “Tamar.”

If the man—Tamar—was bothered by Mal’s cold response, he did not show it. Instead, he gestured to a nearby serving boy and then waved toward the bench opposite him. “Sit. I’ll have food and drink brought for the table.”

Mal did not sit. He glared at Tamar, barely able to keep his voice just short of completely hostile as he snapped, “What are you doing here? Where’s Vaughan?”

“Dead,” Tamar replied coolly, not missing a beat. Then he added, “And before you ask—no, I didn’t kill him. No one did. The old man died peacefully in his sleep three years ago.”

Mal felt his scowl falter. “I didn’t know that.”

He harbored no love for the old thiefmaster. He’d even resented the old man from time to time. But… he had given Mal shelter. And food. And it was partially due to him that the Reaper rose to such prominence.

“Yes, well.” Tamar shrugged as he sat down, not bothering to insist that Mal do the same. “I’m pretty sure you were on the Golden Coast at the time, galavanting around with that ruddy captain. Enjoying your freedom.”

_ The freedom you tried to take away, _ Mal thought bitterly, but he held his tongue.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” he replied instead, finally sitting down although he did not drop his guard in the slightest. 

“Doesn’t it?” Tamar returned, bracing his elbows on the table. “I’m the new thiefmaster.”

Mal stared at the other man for a long while, then snorted. He shook his head. “Of course you are. How did that happen?”

This certainly complicated things.

“It’s a boring tale, I assure you. One I can tell you another time, if you really wish to know. But we are not here to talk about me,” Tamar hummed, drumming his fingers on the table as he leaned back and regarded Mal with a thoughtful expression. “You’ve made quite a life for yourself above ground, Reaper.”

Mal shrugged, keeping his face carefully neutral. “You could say that.”

Behind the mask, Tamar’s dark eyes narrowed by a fraction. “I do.” 

His fingers stilled, knuckles pressing against the wood. “First, you became an adventurer—not one of legends, but not one to shirk off, either. Then, you became the King’s Champion, with your record wiped squeaky clean. For a brief interlude, you were a fugitive. Now, you’re the King’s Champion once more, and something of a war hero.”

The tension in his body broke and Tamar shrugged nonchalantly, waving his hand in a circle. “And what’s more is that the kingdom is none the wiser to the fact that their hero is just a common thief.”

Mal impatiently tapped his heel against the ground, then, upon realizing he was doing that, forced himself to still. He crossed his ankles beneath the table and drawled, “Clearly, you’ve got a point. So, just make it already.”

Tamar arched a brow. “The point is… You’re somebody, Volari. You got what you wanted. You got out of the Guild. Out of the Nooks and Crannies. You’ve become the adventurer we used to hear stories about. So why are you here? King’s Champion, hero of the realm.”

Mal shrugged. “Bunch of fancy titles don’t pay the tab. And I need a break from the road.”

“Right,” Tamar replied dryly. “Sound reason. But I know you better than that. You fought tooth and nail to claw your way out of here—”

“Try not to sound too bitter about it,” Mal remarked snidely beneath his breath and the skin around Tamar’s eyes tightened.

“—and you were one of the few to ever make it out in one piece,” the thiefmaster continued as if Mal had never spoken. “The thief I knew would have rather died than come back to the Guild. So, be honest with me. Why are you  _ really _ here?”

Mal resisted the urge to flinch away from Tamar’s stare. When he had received the invitation to come here, he had expected to find Vaughan. He had prepared for it, had contented himself with playing the naive, shamed protegee who left to chase his dreams of adventure, who was in over his head and was forced to come crawling back. He could have played into pride.

But this… this was not what he had planned for. When he had donned that mask this evening, he had not expected that the night’s events would ultimately lead to him sitting across from Tamar. His old partner. His old friend.

And to him, Mal could not lie.

“You invited me here,” he stated glibly.

“Because you wanted me to,” Tamar replied, his voice just as flat as Mal’s. He shook his head, dissatisfied. “I know you. You’re the best damn thief the Guild has ever seen. People don’t know you’ve stolen from them unless you  _ want  _ them to.” 

He quieted for a moment as a serving boy set two goblets of—Mal’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Celestial icewine.  _ Must have been smuggled out of Undermount by someone on the inside,  _ he mused, wondering how expensive a single barrel must have been. For Tamar to have ordered the drink… well, he was certainly pulling out all of the stops.

Neither moved to drink.

“I invited you here because you wanted me to,” Tamar continued once the server had gone. He leaned across the table, bracing his elbows against the edge as he asked, “Now, why might that be?”

Mal knew when he’d been caught. “The Guild has resources,” he said slowly, dancing around the truth. “I need them. So I want back in.”

Tamar lifted his brows, amused. Mal wondered if his old friend was more interested in Mal’s reasons for returning, or his careful offering of the truth. “Resources such as…?”

“I’ve got a client,” Mal admitted, his fingertips brushing over the hilts of the knives sheathed at his thigh. He counted them in the back of his mind, the act itself more comforting than the presence of the blades. “He wants to contract the Guild.”

“So you are the middle man.” Behind the mask, Tamar’s expression was at once suspicious and intrigued. “Who, exactly, does he hope to hire?”

Mal shook his head. “No one in particular. I told you. He wants to contract the Guild.”

Tamar looked at him blankly for a moment. Then—“The  _ entire Guild?” _

“As many thieves as he can get,” Mal replied casually, even as his fingers began to thrum against his thighs. He didn’t like being still in the Hollows. It made you a target. And right now, he could feel the attention of onlookers start to wear down at him. Mal forced himself not to look, not to give away the nerves he felt here. “The Whitetower network and all of the satellites. Port Parnassus, Stormhold, Skyhaven, Nevarra… He’ll funnel coin into all of the sectors.”

“But… but why?” Tamar blurted. “For what?”

In all the time that Mal had known his fellow thief, he rarely saw him so surprised. A small part of him felt smug at the sight. “You know about the war that’s coming. My client needs a network. To get information, and to spread it.”

“And what better a place to find informants than a den of thieves,” Tamar murmured, his face drawn as his mind put the pieces together. He fixed Mal with a sharp look. “Who did you say your employer was?”

“I didn’t,” Mal replied. “And I won’t. All you need to know is that he is a supporter of Morella’s war effort. A  _ wealthy _ one.”

“And an important one, too, I’d wager,” Tamar muttered, looking put off and sullen for being kept out of the loop of secrets. “That’s why he sent you instead of coming himself.”

“Such a sharp cookie,” Mal answered snarkily and Tamar rolled his eyes. 

“Mm,” Tamar hummed, finally lifting the goblet of icewine and taking a long sip. “So,” he said when he set the cup down. “Your, ah, generous benefactor wants me to… what? Run a spy network for him?”

“No,” Mal answered, reining in a weary sigh. “That is technically my job. And that of one of my co-workers.” His boss, technically. That one-eyed halfling was technically his boss, even though Mal was pretty sure he was half a decade older than her. “You’re just giving us access. Let some of my associates into the network. We’ll do the jobs you contract as we go. All we ask in return is that your thieves keep an extra eye—or ear—out, pass along a letter from time to time, and write up reports on anything interesting. We’ll do the rest.” 

“That’s all?” Tamar asked doubtfully, clearly still suspicious. 

“Yes. Well…” Mal hesitated and the thiefmaster’s eyes narrowed. “There is one more thing.”

“And what is that?” Tamar’s voice was cloyingly kind, but Mal could tell his unease was growing. He couldn’t blame him. When you grew up like they did, it was hard not to be suspicious of everything, even good fortune.

Mal took a deep breath. “I mentioned the Guild had resources I need…” he said slowly. “And I need connections. I need you to put me in contact with Iowan Jan.” 

Tamar’s bronze skin visibly paled, as if the blood had completely drained from his face. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a terse whisper. “Why in the hells do you need me to put you in contact with Iowan Jan?” Then, when he saw Mal’s guarded expression, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “No, wait. Let me guess. Your employer wants a contract with  _ them _ as well.”

“Right again,” Mal remarked dryly. This conversation was certainly not making him any more optimistic about the job ahead.

“And what makes you think I can do that?” Tamar questioned.

Mal huffed and held up his hands, palms up, like they were plates in a scale. “Master of the Thieves Guild,” he said, lifting one hand and tilting his head toward Tamar. “Master of the Assassins Guild.” He lifted the other hand, then clasped them together. “The two pillars of crime. Aren’t you two chums by now?”

“Hardly,” Tamar sniffed, working his jaw. “Thieves and murderers aren’t on the same level.”

That was… fair.

“So you  _ can’t _ get me in contact with Jan?” Mal prodded.

“I didn’t say that.”

Mal smirked slightly. “So you  _ could.” _

Tamar gave him an exasperated look. “Iowan Jan is a dangerous man, Volari. He has more skeletons in his closet than an entire morgue.”

Mal’s stomach twisted. Once, long ago, on an isolated beach in the Shimmering Isles, he’d told Iliana about Morella’s Assassins Guilds and gave her a word of caution.

_ Are Assassins Guilds even a real thing?  _ she had asked, her eyes wide with surprise, back when the world was still new and the poor thing still had the bravery to feel wonder.

_ Sure. If you know where to look, _ he had replied.  _ …Don’t look though. That won’t end well. _

For once, couldn’t just take his own damned advice?

“I’m well aware,” Mal replied, tension drawing his muscles taut. “That doesn’t change what needs to be done.”

Tamar’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You must be getting paid well to do all of this.”

“Filling some debts,” he replied casually, shaking his head.  _ A life debt. Several of them.  _ It was almost embarrassing how many times that princeling had saved his sorry ass. “And helping out a friend.”

“An important, powerful, secret friend,” Tamar added. “One I am not entirely sure I should trust.”

“He’s good for his word—there’s no deceit involved, I swear it,” Mal insisted. “Nothing will happen to the Guild when this is over.”

“What interesting company you keep,” Tamar mused, cupping his chin in his palm. “And where, pray tell, is all of this coin coming from? I imagine it’s not the kind that is being made here.”

“Coin is coin,” Mal replied, a lick of impatience edging its way into his voice. “At the end of the day, all that matters is that you’re getting paid.” 

Tamar smirked. “You still think like a thief.”

“Hard habit to shake.” Mal shrugged. “So,” he said, leaning forward. “Do we have an agreement?”

Tamar studied Mal for a long moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. Then he said, “Not quite.” There was a mischievous glint in his dark eyes that Mal did not like one bit. “There’s still one issue we have yet to address.” 

Mal sighed, curling his fingers into his palms to resist sifting them through his hair. “Look, if you want a down payment, I’ll have to get that to you at another time. I didn’t bring anything—”

“Not that.” Tamar clicked his tongue and sat back, laying his arms over the back of the bench as he crossed an ankle over his knee. “I still haven’t let you back into the Guild.”

Mal scowled.  _ Right.  _ “So you haven’t.”

“Oh, don’t look so sullen and surprised,” Tamar chided, some of the lightness returning to his youthful features. “You know how it goes. You’re not a little kid anymore, Reaper. Letting you in is a cost, not a long-term investment. I have to test you.”

“You can keep whatever coin I earn you,” Mal muttered around his frown. “No payback.”

Tamar shrugged. “Rules are rules. I won’t be the first thiefmaster to break tradition. You understand, right? It’s just business.”

Right,  _ business.  _ Here, in the Hollows, in Whitetower’s underworld,  _ business  _ meant a lot of things. Thieving, murdering for gold, fighting in pits—that was all business. But  _ business, _ without fail, was almost always an excuse. A pickpocket swiped your coin purse? Business. A mercenary broke your arm in the pits? Business. An assassin killed your mother? Business. Probably.

“Fine,” Mal relented with a grunt. “What do you want me to do? Steal a chandelier? Take the King’s crown?” His gaze fell to the goblet of untouched wine on the table. “Smuggle a wine dealer out of a certain elven city?”

Tamar barked out a laugh, and the sound was so familiar, Mal felt like he was a kid again, sleeping on the ground of the old millhouse with the other street urchins, bordered by his two best friends. His crew.

But then the moment passed and Mal was sitting in a booth in the Hollows, watching a weathered thiefmaster shake his head.

“No,” Tamar replied, tapping his chin with a finger. “No, nothing like that. As amusing as that would all be,” he drawled, tilting his head. “I’ll let you off with a simple task. A little favor from me to you, as an old friend.” 

Mal narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to sneer.  _ Old friend.  _ “How kind,” he said tersely. “So what’s my task?”

“How about…” A small smile bloomed on Tamar’s face. “I pick any item here in the Hollows and you bring it back for me.”

In other words, he’d be stealing from criminals.  _ So much for honor among thieves,  _ he thought bitterly.

“Fine,” Mal snapped. “Pick your piece.”

Tamar’s gaze roamed around, his relaxed posture and idle behavior hinting at nonchalance although Mal could tell by the sharp gleam in his eyes that the thiefmaster was thinking very carefully about Mal’s next mark.

“There,” he said at last, nodding his chin toward a cluster of elegantly dressed, masked people: three men and one young woman. “One of those brooches.”

Mal followed Tamar’s gaze to the glittering brooches that were pinned over the breast of each member of the company, except for the older, silver-haired man at the center. Upon closer inspection, Mal could see the brooch was a golden grape leaf, set with a large, sparkling amethyst.

“A little flashy for the Hollows,” Mal muttered in disapproval.

“Serves them right to have it stolen, then, no?” Tamar questioned lightly.

Mal wasn’t sure he would say these people  _ deserved _ to be stolen from… but he certainly wouldn’t lose any sleep over divesting them of such a gaudy pin. “Do you know anything about this brooch?”

Tamar shrugged. “Looks like some sort of family crest.”

Mal supposed that was as solid a guess as any. The company that wore the brooches could very well have been a family—a father and his three, fully-grown children. Mal could not fathom why someone would bring their family to a place like the Hollows, but he supposed wealthy people did a lot of things that didn’t make sense.

“Think you can do it?” Tamar asked.

Mal shot him a sharp look and huffed. “Of course I can.”

In response, Tamar merely raised an expectant brow and waved his hand forward as if to say,  _ Go on, then.  _

Mal glowered at the thiefmaster and stood, grabbing his goblet and draining all of his Celestial icewine in three large gulps. For a brief moment, Mal regretted not savoring the elvish drink, but he knew that as long as he was in the Hollows, he could never enjoy anything. 

Mal was about to step out of the booth and set off after his marks when Tamar’s hand fastened around his wrist. “Wait.”

Mal twisted at his waist, raising a suspicious brow as he looked down at the other thief.

Tamar set something on the table and slid it toward Mal, releasing his wrist. There was a certain somber gravity in his face as he said, “Welcome back, Reaper.”

Mal looked down at the object on the table. It was his mask. 

Made of ebony and gold leaf, it looked just as it had five years ago, when he left it and the Guild behind. There was a small chip in the upper edge of the mask, right above where his left brow would sit behind it.

Mal’s own heartbeat was loud in his ears as he gingerly picked up the mask and weighed it in his hands, which had suddenly gone cold and clammy. Sensing Tamar’s gaze on him, Mal ducked his head, letting his hood conceal him as he undid the satin mask Anneith had given him and refastened the old one. The one that belonged to the Whitetower Reaper.

Tamar’s lips curled into a genial smile, although Mal did not miss its rueful edge as the thiefmaster said, “Just like old times.”

Mal resisted the urge to say,  _ It will never be like old times. Never again. _

Mal was about to step away from the booth when he paused once more, this time in hesitation. He looked over his shoulder at Tamar and swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Kazi…” he said quietly. “What happened to her?”

Something in Tamar’s dark gaze shuttered. “She got out, Mal,” he answered, his voice carefully flat. “Just like you. A few months after you left. But unlike you,” he added with a sardonic edge, “I don’t think she’s ever coming back.”

Mal nodded. “If she’s smart, she won’t.”

Tamar smirked. “What does that say about you?”

Mal huffed, the barest hint of a smile creeping onto his lips as he shook his head. “You two were always the brains of the crew. I never claimed otherwise.”

Tamar tilted his chin up. “Good man.”

Mal bobbed his head. “I try.”   


Then, before he could have any second doubts, Mal stepped out of the booth and slipped into the crowd.

As he blended into the sea of masked and unmasked faces, Mal evaluated his marks. The silver-haired man was of no use to him—he wore no badge. Which left the two younger, blonde and burly men, and the golden-haired woman.

When the woman broke away from the cluster of companions and began to make her way toward the bar, Mal chose his mark.

* * *

Mal had a knack for seduction.

Although Threep would disagree, all of the stories Mal had shared about swindling countessas with his charm were true, if not a little embellished—they were  _ always _ a little embellished. But he had a knack for it nonetheless.

Once, a few months ago, he and Iliana had a contest in the Stone’s Throw to see who could seduce more patrons into buying their drinks. Mal wasn’t entirely sure who won that night, for they’d both gotten so many drinks, everything began to blur together. He supposed that was a marker of success in itself.

Tonight was no exception.

Mal didn’t like to brag— _ oh, yes he did _ —but he had the brooched woman—or,  _ Yeda Rodan, _ as she’d introduced herself with her sultry voice and a saccharine smile—in the palm of his hand.

It was so simple. Engage her in conversation. Lean against the counter, just so. Curl his lips as such. A feathered touch  _ here  _ and another  _ there.  _ Make her laugh, make her blush, and— _ there.  _ Yeda was curled beneath his arm like a bird tucked beneath another’s wing, her pale, slender fingers toying with the edge of his mask, his jaw as she laughed at one of his stories.

Yeda had an accent. Typically, Mal quite liked accents, and he was fairly certain hers belonged to the fishing settlements of the Golden Coast. Mal felt the back of his neck warm when Yeda looked at him through her lashes and used that accented voice of hers to describe exactly what she wanted with him in no uncertain terms.

Once, Mal may have indulged in it. But now, he only felt a little sick. 

He knew this was just a job. Steal the brooch for Tamar. Steal the brooch for Tamar to regain membership to the Guild. Regain membership to the Guild to get a spy network for Aerin. Get a spy network for Aerin to win the war. Win the war to live.

It was just a job, something he had to do, regardless of his icky feelings.

Mal reached out with one hand to curl his fingers around the brooch as the other dragged his pointer finger from the curve of Yeda’s cheek to the tip of her chin, tilting her smiling face up and away from the brooch. He tried not to shudder in repulsion, and as he did came an entire slew of unwanted thoughts.

He did not want to touch anyone like this. Did not want to touch or be touched like this, did not want to bat eyes and trade sly smiles like this, not with anyone, not with anyone unless  _ anyone  _ was—

_ Nia. _

Mal felt his stomach twist and his chest tighten.

But Nia wouldn’t—Nia would never—and neither would he because he didn’t  _ want  _ that with her—a flirtation, a fling, a dalliance. He wanted…  _ He wanted…  _

Mal knew what he wanted. But it didn’t matter because she still didn’t. And he was starting to think that he could live with her not knowing, if only so he would never face the pain of knowing that she  _ didn’t _ want—

_ “Yeda.” _

Perhaps it was because he was so busy wrestling with these…  _ troubling  _ thoughts that Mal did not even see one of the other brooched men—who he had earlier marked as Yeda’s brothers—approach until he was practically breathing down their necks.

They snapped apart, Yeda nearly shoving Mal into the bar counter as she abruptly turned. Her red lips twisted into a pout, face burning beneath her mask with—shame? Embarrassment? Mal could not tell as she faced her brother, her brooch still clipped to her dress— _ Damn it, Mal _ —and whined, “Brullo.”

The other man, Brullo, said something in sharp, clipped words that Mal did not understand because he was too busy digesting the fact that aside from the golden hair, Yeda and Brullo really looked nothing alike, despite what he had judged at first glance. 

“Keva doesn’t care,” Yeda was pouting, her fingers curling into Mal’s sleeve as she tugged him to her side, clutching him like a doll. “Why should you?”

“It’s not  _ Keva’s _ duty to care about you,” Brullo rumbled, lumbering closer. His words were directed at Yeda, but his gaze was trained on Mal. And it was blazing. “It’s mine.”

Oddly enough, they didn’t even have the same accent.

Yeda’s fingers tightened around Mal’s arm, like a child clinging to her toy. Mal glanced down and immediately wished he hadn’t, for there, on the third finger of her left hand, sat a sparkling, amethyst ring.

And in an instant, Mal understood. He looked up at Brullo, wishing he could kick his own ass. Not a brother.  _ Husband. _

Brullo’s large hand fastened around Yeda’s wrist and he tugged her away from Mal, throwing her behind him, his face drawn into a most unkind expression. Yeda stomped her foot and huffed. The expression she gave Mal, while clearly irritated, almost looked pitying.

Brullo stepped toward Mal, reaching into the pocket of his fine clothes. When he withdrew his hand, there was a gleaming set of brass knuckles dangling between his fingers.

_ Oh, for saint’s sake. _

“Brullo,” Mal said congenially, putting on his most placating smile. “There’s no need for that.”

Brullo did not return his smile. Instead, he slipped the brass knuckles onto his meaty fingers.

_ Right,  _ Mal sighed inwardly.  _ So it’s going to be like that, then. _

Well. This was supposed to be an easy job. Go in, get the brooch, get out. A simple plan.

But then again, Mal was never very good at sticking to plans. No, what he  _ was _ good at was improvising. 

Mal grinned sheepishly, holding up his hands as he shrugged innocently. Then, before anyone could react, Mal promptly reached across the bar, swiped a bottle of brandy, and smashed it over Brullo’s head.

The sound cut through the air, instantly silencing all conversation in the Hollows as every eye turned toward them. Brullo glared at Mal. Blood trickled down his temple, staining his golden hair, and his cobalt eyes were slightly unfocused, but the big lug did not fall. If anything, he only looked even more enraged. 

That was just as well.

Mal could practically feel the tension in the Hollows rise, the bloodlust peak, as Brullo cracked his knuckles and wound up his punch. When he threw it, Mal grinned.

Mal, ever quick on his feet, ducked and spun around Brullo’s back, just as the man’s armored fist cracked into the jaw of the  _ other  _ burly man, an innocent bystander—or as innocent as one could be in the Hollows—who simply happened to be standing behind Mal.

The man who’d been struck blinked, dazed, then fastened his glare on Brullo. He reached down and grabbed a stool by the counter, his intention clear. 

“Have fun, buddy,” Mal crooned, then planted his elbow in Brullo’s back and shoved him forward, just as the Hollows erupted into chaos.

That was the thing about the Hollows. It might have been decorated with glittering chandeliers, had walls lined with gold filigree, and served the finest elvish wine, but it still belonged to the underworld. The criminals that frequented it—the  _ real _ criminals, who earned their living through blood and grit—were always bristling for a fight.

Mal spun out of the way of a broken chair leg that was aimed for his chest, turning to find an unmasked man—a mercenary pit fighter from the look of him—reaching for his face. Whether the man’s intent was to hit him or take his mask, Mal did not know. In a brawl like this, he didn’t have time to think. So instead, he let his body act.

Mal leaned back, holding his face out of range as he reached out with one hand, grabbed the man’s wrist, and slammed it atop the bar’s countertop. With the other hand, he unsheathed one of his knives and drove it through the back of the man’s hand, pinning it to the counter.

“Sorry, pal,” Mal said over the man’s howl of pain, not feeling very sorry at all. “The mask stays on.”

Then he yanked the blade back out, inciting yet another howl, and slipped away in the melee. Mal heard Yeda shriek as fighting broke out all around them, and for a moment, Mal considered turning back to help her, but then he saw one of the other men she was with— _ Another husband? _ Mal’s subconscious snipped dryly—jostle his way through the crowd, heft her over his shoulder and carry her toward one of the Hollows’ many hidden exits. The silver-haired man followed close behind.

Good. That was one less problem Mal had to deal with.

But… As Mal watched Yeda’s retreating form in the chaos, he remembered another problem he had: he didn’t get the brooch.

“There you are!” someone exclaimed, fingers curling around Mal’s bicep. “Time to go.”

Mal turned to see Tamar at his side, mask still intact, dark hair unruffled. He was willing to bet that the thiefmaster had slipped through the tavern brawl unnoticed and unscathed, but before he could ask any questions, Tamar turned away, dragging him through the chaos toward another exit. It went without saying that escaping through the Three of Knives was a bad idea.

Mal followed Tamar through the melee, covering their retreat. By the time they slipped through a passageway hidden behind a painting, Mal had only suffered a single bruise on his cheekbone and a few lost blades. Tamar, unsurprisingly, was unharmed. Mal remembered that growing up, Tamar always had a knack for weaseling his way out of trouble.

They traveled in silence for a short while, the din of the tavern brawl echoing throughout the dark tunnel. The further away from the Hollows they went, the more the tunnel widened and the smoothed, bricked interior gave way to raw, coarse stone. The darkness before them gradually became less oppressive, eventually thinning to reveal the mouth of the tunnel, illuminated by the moonlight.

The tunnel spat them out on the shore of Lake Orynth, which sat just outside the eastern walls of Whitetower. For a few moments, they simply stood there in silence, drinking in the sight of the moonlit lake and digesting the night’s events.

The stars shone brightly overhead, glittering like a smattering of diamonds, wide open and ready for the taking. It was as if in all of its brilliance, the night was taunting them, mocking the misfortune of the two thieves that stood alone on the shore, left with nothing but sticky fingers and empty pockets.

Mal turned to Tamar, finally speaking for the first time since they’d found each other in the chaos. “I didn’t get the brooch.”

“Yeah,” Tamar breathed out slowly. He reached up and unfastened his mask, allowing Mal to fully look upon his face for the first time in five years. “I didn’t think you would.”

Tamar was handsome. Not in the way Mal had been told he was, but alluring nonetheless. Whereas Mal was roguish and scruffy, Tamar was almost lovely, like the porcelain dolls Isa used to ogle over in the display windows of the Diamond District before the shopkeeper shooed them away. Even with those sly, fox-like features and dark scheming eyes, Mal remembered the charm he wielded. 

He and Kazi used to say that if Tamar never made it as a thief, he would certainly make a shiny coin in the Emerald Palace, Whitetower’s most famed pleasure house. Or at least he could have, had it not been for the jagged scar that bisected his face, crossing from his left cheekbone, over the bridge of his slender nose, and through his right brow.

_ The wealthy don’t like damaged goods,  _ Tamar would always sneer in reply.

Mal narrowed his eyes. “I would have if I’d known she had a  _ husband.” _

Tamar snorted suddenly, making Mal jump. “Yeda Rodan has a husband, but it certainly wasn’t that brute.”

“Then why did he—” Mal broke off suddenly, his eyes widening, then narrowing into slivers. “How do you know  _ Yeda Rodan _ and if she has a husband?”

Tamar smirked, kicking a rock in the sand. “Anyone with ears in the underworld knows about Yeda Rodan and her husband.”

Mal’s brows shot up. “That big brute, Brullo?”

“No,” Tamar huffed around a laugh. “Not ‘that big brute, Brullo.’ Brullo was a guard. I’m talking about  _ Keva Rodan.  _ The older man. Owner of the Vaults, the Scorched Bone, the Gilded Prince, the Blue Iris, and the newly acquired, Emerald Palace.”

Mal blinked, both at the revelation that Yeda was not the daughter of that older man but his  _ wife,  _ and at the locations Tamar had ticked off. Those were all underworld establishments, hidden taverns like the Hollows, brothels, betting houses… “I’ve never heard of him.”

Tamar sighed. “No. You wouldn’t have. He’s new blood. Garnered some fame when he established the Vaults two summers ago to compete with the Hollows. You were…” Tamar trailed off, waving his hand through the air. “I don’t know where you were, but it obviously was not here.”

Mal tried to recall where he was two summers ago. The southern settlements, probably, stealing some fancy sword that was apparently a long lost heirloom. Or maybe he was in the Dunbar Forest, picking up a spirit totem. The memories of his adventures before this past year were all starting to blur together, so dull in comparison to the mess he was in now. 

“Anyway,” Tamar shrugged dismissively. “Keva Rodan is big now. He practically runs the nevermore trade. That’s what funds all of his businesses. Even the Hollows’ tavern keeper has to buy supply from him.”

“So what’s your point?” Mal questioned flatly, pulling off his mask and jamming it into the folds of his cloak. He didn’t want to even look at the damned thing right now. “You wanted to see if I could swindle the wife of some crime boss?”

“No,” Tamar replied, shoving his hand into his pocket. “I wanted to get  _ this.” _

Tamar withdrew his hand from his pocket and pulled out something sparkling and golden. The grape leaf brooch. He tossed it to Mal, who caught it against his chest, and folded his hands behind his back.

“I swiped it off of Rodan’s other bodyguard,” Tamar explained, pointing at the gleaming brooch. “While you were off starting a tavern brawl, the big lug didn’t even see me coming. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Mal furrowed his brow. “What do you me—Wait.” He weighed the brooch in his palm, holding it up. “You knew that was Keva Rodan’s wife. And you knew I would go after her. And you  _ knew _ —”

“One of Rodan’s boys would go after you,” Tamar finished, dipping his chin. “Yes. I did.”

“So the fight…” Mal reasoned, lips twisting in annoyance. “I was just a distraction for you?”

“A very good one,” Tamar quipped with that fox’s smile of his. “Now who’s the sharp cookie?”

“It’s always been you,” Mal snapped, tightening his grip on the brooch, its gilded edge biting into his palms as he resisted the urge to hurl the cursed thing at the other thief. “You never could do a job on your own. Not a good one anyway. Always scheming to get others to do your dirty work.”

“Then I guess that’s why I make a good thiefmaster, no?” Tamar replied with an innocent shrug. He shook his head, dispelling the topic for now, and jutted his chin toward the brooch in Mal’s hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“You said it was a family crest earlier,” Mal stated flatly, not bothering to hide the bitter edge in his voice. “But I’m going to assume that’s a lie. And from now on, let’s just assume I don’t know anything about what’s happened in the city over the last five years, because I  _ don’t.” _

“Well, it  _ is _ a crest,” Tamar conceded, tilting his head from side to side. “Just not a family one, per se. It’s Rodan’s crest. Supposed to be a grape leaf, because publicly, he’s a vintner. Only his guards and trusted partners wear it.” He waved his hand at the brooch. “That signifies someone part of Rodan’s crew. Nobody gets in or out of his estate without one. Nobody comes within ten feet of the man, unguarded, without it.”

Mal arched a brow, inspecting the brooch with renewed interest. “So why do you want it?”

_ “I  _ don’t. You do,” Tamar corrected, a smug smirk on his lovely face. But before Mal could demand what the hell that meant, Tamar explained, “That is your ticket to meeting Iowan Jan. Your ticket into the Assassins Guild.”

Mal frowned, closing his fingers around the brooch. “And how do you figure that?”

“Because Iowan Jan wants Keva Rodan dead,” Tamar said, his dark eyes glittering in the moonlight. “And we are going to kill him.”

  
  



End file.
